Between Truth and Absolution
by EstelRaca
Summary: Six months after Phoenix Wright was found to be innocent of wrong-doing, Klavier is struggling more than ever with guilt and depression, to the point where doing his job is becoming difficult. When Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth notices, he asks Phoenix to help him find a way to help Klavier. Set mid-Dual Destinies.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This story was written based on a prompt I saw, to have puppet-master!Phoenix from Apollo Justice trying to help Klavier through guilt and depression following that game despite still harboring mixed feelings given Klavier's role in his disbarring. Game four and I have a difficult relationship. I cried far more while playing it than a grown adult should, because Phoenix as a beacon of hope is really important to me and seeing him so hurt and bitter was hard. I've since come to terms with Phoenix's arc, and I adore Trucy and Apollo and Klavier, but I'm still not okay with where Klavier's left. So this piece is somewhat self-indulgent, and deals with themes of generalized depression and anxiety as well as borderline suicidal ideation, but hopefully others will find something worthwhile in it too. Set shortly after Monstrous Turnabout.

 _Between Truth and Absolution_

 **Chapter 1**

 _Guilty_.

The verdict is read with grim gravity, and the gallery erupts into cheers and jeers—cheers for him, jeers for the defendant, and Klavier forces himself to smile for his fans even as his stomach clenches into a knot and his pulse pounds hard enough in his ears to drown out the sound of the crowd.

 _Guilty_ , he hears in time to the beating of his heart.

The defense attorney doesn't say anything. He is a man twice Klavier's age, not Justice or the young woman who has been standing by Justice's side in court lately, and the man's scowl as he packs up his bag and turns away says all that Klavier needs to know. This is not a man who will greet him in the corridor, who will congratulate him on his victory or tell him that his deductions are right. This is a man who will ignore him, who will be paid by the defendant to look for any loop-holes, any appeals that might be possible.

 _Guilty_ , he still hears echoing, and though his breathing is easier now his pulse still pounds and his hands, if he takes them off the prosecutor's bench, will be shaking.

The defendant glares at him, a look of pointed daggers and absolute hatred that Klavier will see in his dreams tonight.

 _Guilty,_ Klavier forces himself to breathe on a whisper, and it is not Klavier's fault that this man murdered his step-son in order to take his inheritance. It is not Klavier's fault that for some people life is cheap and a small fortune is only good for getting to a bigger fortune. It is not Klavier's fault that the defendant will almost certainly be sentenced to death for his heinous actions.

 _And you are absolutely certain of his guilt?_ The voice whispers in his ears around the lingering echo of _guilty_ , and Klavier forces his hands to move, to begin clearing off his own bench and tidying up his bag. It will look strange if he doesn't, after all. Someone will come and ask him what he is doing, and then he will have to either lie to them or evade the question, because he cannot answer it truthfully.

( _Cannot_ , because he can't even name the voice that whispers now. Is it his? Kristoph's? They have always sounded as well as looked similar, and he has been Kristoph's puppet for years without knowing, and he can't say for certain and—)

"It's not going to stick."

Klavier startles, jumping back in what is obviously surprise and panic, cursing himself inwardly even as his body acts. He should be aware enough of his surroundings so someone's approach isn't a surprise, and if he _is_ surprised, then years of dealing with fans and papparazzi have taught him to hide it.

The defendant _smiles_ at him even as the bailiff places a hand on the man's elbow, clearly intent on leading him off, and it is a smile that is all teeth and feral hatred. "This verdict, I won't allow it to stick, and given the current state of the law... well, enjoy your victory while you can, Gavin, but it won't be for long."

Klavier blinks, and for a moment the pounding in his head clears as he studies the man before him. _Guilty_ , the voice in his head whispers, but it is a sigh of relief now, because he is for a few more minutes completely certain it is true. He has seen what the falsely accused and convicted look like—seen the confusion, the disbelief, the hesitant shock, and this is not it. "Fight all you want, Herr Killer. Appeal all you want. I will be there, and the evidence will be there, and the _truth_ will be there, and no amount of money in the world will change that."

The man doesn't have time to reply before the bailiff pulls him along, out into the defendant's lobby, and Klavier finishes packing up with a smile on his face.

A smile that fades as he walks out of the courtroom, a niggling worm of doubt settling in again. Perhaps he is wrong. Perhaps the man is angry because he is innocent, and instead of turning inward to find solace and certainty he is lashing out at the man who hurt him. Perhaps—

"Prosecutor Gavin!"

Klavier flinches before he can stop himself. _His_ name, he reminds himself as he takes a steadying breath. Whenever there is _prosecutor_ in front of that name it is _his_ , and the fact that he cannot even claim his _name_ now without pain is just _silly_. The Gavinners had nothing to do with Kristoph. His own career, for the most part, has nothing to do with Kristoph. So why has he started to flinch whenever he hears his family name, as though it is tainted irredeemably by association?

(And perhaps it is, perhaps _he_ is, perhaps the reporters asking him over and over how involved he had been in Kristoph's schemes are not simply hunting for fresh blood in the water but—)

"Hi, Klavier!" The girl in the top hat bounces to a stop in front of him. She is smiling at him, an innocent, excited expression as she beams a wide grin over the top of the awkwardly-wrapped gift that she is holding out to him. "You were amazing today! It's funny getting to watch you from the gallery instead of from the defense's bench, but I still enjoyed it."

Klavier finds himself relaxing and returning the girl's smile almost against his will—certainly against his better judgment. Because if Trucy Wright is here, in the prosecutor's area, and Apollo Justice is _not_ here, then a betting man would expect—

"A well-planned and well-executed attack." Phoenix Wright smiles, too, but it isn't the open, honest expression that his daughter wears. It isn't a dark or threatening smile, like the defendant wore, either, but Klavier doesn't like it, and he certainly doesn't like the way Wright always directs it at _him_ whenever they meet.

"Herr Wright." Klavier tries to speak neutrally, to maintain the smile that he donned for Trucy, and he thinks he succeeds, for the most part. And if he can't quite look Phoenix in the eye, if he can't quite bring himself to meet the still-bitter gaze of the man whose life he helped destroy, well, who could really blame him? "Fraulein Magician. It is good to see you, Trucy."

"Good to see you too, Klavier. I've missed you. We don't get to see you nearly often enough unless we're on the same case." Trucy sighs, lips turning down in a small pout.

"Well, that just means that Herr Forehead and I shall have to work more of the same cases, no?" Klavier finds that if he stays focused on Trucy, bends down slightly and keeps his eyes just on her face, it is easy to keep his smile in place. (Easy to avoid looking at her father, to avoid _thinking_ of her father.) There is a brightness and warmth about the girl, a sincerity and exuberance, that he has appreciated since their first encounter.

"Yes!" Trucy nods enthusiastically. "Or you can work opposite Athena—she's Daddy's new employee, and she's super cool! She's not that much older than me, but she speaks something like a dozen langauges and she already passed the bar exam, which is something Daddy still hasn't managed to do again—"

"Because I haven't _tried_ yet, Trucy, don't make it sound like I failed—"

"—and I just think that you'll like her. I know I really do, though Polly is of course our best employee, since he came first. That's why we still give him all the good cases." Trucy hugs the gift-wrapped box to her chest, seeming to have forgotten about it in her excitement to catch up with him about their mutual acquaintances.

Klavier finds himself touched by both her words and the gesture. He has given himself little time outside work for the last few months, and he can count on one hand the number of acquaintances who have reached out to him since Kristoph's arrest. At least, those who have wanted _him_ , and not confirmation of theories and stories or an exclusive interview or permission to sell some piece of memorabilia for an exorbitant price once it became clear that he truly was disbanding the Gavinners. "And what kind of cases might those be, Fraulein Magician?"

"Anything and everything we can find, of course! So far this week Polly's helped people paint a fence, find a lost dog, track down a no-good cheating husband, and retrieve a winning lottery ticket."

Klavier frowns, trying to imagine Apollo doing... well, any of those tasks. "Those... do not sound like the kind of job Herr Forehead..." Trucy's eyes narrow, and Klavier searches for a tactful way to make his point. "...trained for."

"No." Trucy rolls her eyes. "But legal cases only come around every so often, especially ones with clients that we can actually accept and that me, Apollo, Athena, or Daddy aren't convinced are lying murderers or kidnappers or cheaters who actually deserve to go to jail. That means that members of the Wright Anything Agency have to be prepared to take on any task, and me and Polly are really good at it."

Klavier smiles, imagining the look on Apollo's face when Trucy has no doubt explained her theory to him in the past. It would have been nice to be there, to see it. "I bet that you are, Fraulein."

"Of course we are!" Trucy has no doubt charmed a great many people out of their money with that grin of hers, and Klavier realizes with a start that she is not that much younger than he was when the Gavinners made their hugely sucessful debut. A moment after the realization comes the doubt—always doubt now, no matter where he is or what he is doing—the worry that perhaps the joy and cheer he appreciates in the girl is a facade, a cover, the persona that she wears as a showman.

"I've missed you, since we're not seeing you in court, though, and you're not on television much anymore, or at least not when you're actually talking and smiling and looking like you, so I asked Daddy to look up when you'd next be in court so that we could come see you." The girl looks down at the box in her arms, expression suddenly shy, and Klavier regrets doubting her sincerity. "And I found this for you. Assuming you don't mind me giving you a present."

Dropping down to one knee makes him shorter than the girl, and Klavier puts on his most dashing grin as he takes one of her hands off the box and kisses the back of it. "I would accept a gift from you at any time, Fraulein Magician, though the gift of your presence and joy of your company is more than enough."

The noise that Phoenix Wright makes is more like a growl than a cough, and Klavier hastily releases Trucy's hand, trying not to cringe away. He has done— _is doing—_ nothing wrong.

(And Phoenix is not the first parent he has angered, not by a long shot, but Phoenix's mere _presence_ hurts whenever Klavier allows himself to acknowledge it, Phoenix's gaze is boring through him like hot brands, and he must focus just on the girl if he is going to make it through this.)

Trucy grins at him, bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement. "The gift of our presence is actually due to Uncle Edgeworth—"

" _Prosecutor_ Edgeworth!" Phoenix's voice is half-exasperated, half-embarassed.

"But _this_ gift is all from me and all to you!" Trucy holds out the box.

Klavier accepts it gravely, fingers running over the uneven wrapping. "Would you like me to open it now?"

"Of course!" Trucy crosses her arms behind her back, hands clasped together. "I want to see what you think of it. I tried to find something that I thought you would enjoy."

The paper comes off in one smooth piece, and Klavier stares down at the box, making sure that a smile stays fixed on his face even as all emotion seems to evaporate out of him.

"Aren't they just _adorable_?" Trucy points down through the clear plastic of the box at a crying blue rhinoceros in a suit. "Rhiny's my favorite—he just looks so sad and like he needs a hug. I like Phanty, too, he just looks so _cute_ with his paint brush, but he doesn't look like he needs a hug."

"More like a spanking." Phoenix's hand falls on his daughter's head, ruffling her hair and earning a squeak of protest.

"So..." Trucy's right hand creeps up to the collar of her outfit, toys with the catch there as she stares down at him with growing nervousness. "I thought... since they're themed after the legal system, like your songs are... that maybe you'd like them?"

Klavier is still smiling. He can feel the expression on his face through the numbness, and he makes sure it stays in place as he forces his eyes to meet Trucy's. "It is a very thoughtful gift, and you are correct that it fits in thematically with the rest of my life. I don't have words to properly express my gratitude."

A soft sound draws Trucy's eyes up to her father, though Klavier can't bring himself to look. Allows his eyes to fall down to the blue-suited, teary-eyed rhinoceros toy in the box instead, which is _almost_ like looking at Wright but not nearly as painful. "You could always start by saying _thank you_ , rock star."

"Daddy—"

"I am not a rock star anymore, Herr Wright." Klavier makes sure to enunciate each word clearly, to breathe in deeply and out evenly so that there is no waver to his voice. "I am just a prosecutor. And I thank your daughter very much for a very kind gift. It truly does mean a lot to me, Trucy."

"Klavier..." Trucy's right hand reaches out towards him, though she hesitates before actually touching him.

As well she should. The fact that they were friends for a few months pales to insignificance next to the injuries he has done to her family.

Standing, holding the collector's box with the stuffed toys to his chest with his right arm, Klavier tries to dredge up a more honest smile for the girl. "It has been some time since I received such a thoughtful gift from anyone. Thank you, both for seeking me out and for the gift."

"You're welcome." Trucy frowns between him and Phoenix, left arm hugging her stomach in a clear gesture of discomfort. "Are you okay, Klavier? You seem..."

"I am fine, Fraulein. Just tired after a long day in court." Gesturing towards the door, Klavier picks up his bag in his free hand. "Would you give me the pleasure of your company on the way to my car?"

"Yeah." Trucy is still eyeing him speculatively, clearly unsettled by some of his reactions.

"I will put these in a place of honor in my office." Klavier lifts the box with the stuffed animals. "That way I will be able to see them and remember that I have a wonderful friend who has very good taste in paralegal paraphernalia."

Trucy gives his elbow a tiny shove. "That's not how you're supposed to use paralegal."

"Perhaps not, but songwriters are allowed some poetic license with words, ja?" Klavier's smile is more honest as he pushes his way into the main corridor. "And these friends of ours are based around but not directly associated with the legal system, so paralegal seems appropriate."

"Mmm, I guess it's better than alternatives..."

"They are rather cute designs." Phoenix glances down at the box. "The one thing I don't really like is the color that they chose for Phanty."

"I _know_." Trucy moans out a sigh. "Red's an awesome color, and it's a good complement to blue, so I guess I get why they did it, but red's _Polly's_ color. Or Uncle Edgeworth's—"

" _Prosecutor_ Edgeworth, please, Trucy, just when we're here—"

Trucy doesn't seem to hear her father's protest. "—and is therefore definitely _not_ associated with bad things. Though maybe Phanty's rehabilitatable? Like Uncle Edgeworth..."

"Edgeworth never fell as far as using forged evidence to get false convictions." Phoenix's eyes have taken on a far-away cast as he slouches along at his daughter's side, looking conspicuous in his jeans and hat that hide him in a crowd but make him obvious here. "And he's spent the last decade fighting against corruption of all types."

"I know." Trucy sighs. "They _definitely_ should have picked a different color."

"A darker color, I think." Phoenix's eyes snap into sharp focus again, flicking up and down Klavier's body with clear disdain. "But who am I to say what would be the best one to use?"

Klavier pushes through the door into the parking garage, and though the late spring air is still cool it provides him with an excuse for his hitching breath.

 _Guilty_ , someone whispers in his head in time with his pulse, him or his brother, and he knows without Phoenix saying more what color Phoenix believes the Phony Phanty toy should be. "I... need to get back to the office. I still have a good deal of paperwork to do to wrap up this case, and I am certain the Chief Prosecutor will have more work for me soon."

Miles Edgeworth has been Chief Prosecutor for only a little over four months now, but he seems determined to keep Klavier busy, piling case after case onto Klavier's desk. Given that Klavier has been trying to keep himself occupied with work—to keep himself out of the spotlight and away from crowds unless it is in the controlled environment of work, where he can be certain that no one will approach him with unpleasant questions about Kristoph—the arrangement has worked out well.

Though given that Phoenix and Trucy are apparently very familiar with Prosecutor Edgeworth, perhaps there is good reason for the extra work. Punishment, for what Klavier did? Or a test—waiting for Klavier to make more mistakes, to prove that he is either incompetent or evil?

"Klavier..." Trucy hesitates for a moment, then throws her arms around him in a hug that nearly drops both of them to the floor. Looking up at him, she frowns, her eyes full of fierce determination. "Keep in touch with us, all right? Call me or Apollo if you need to talk. Or just to let us know how you're doing. We miss you."

"Ach, Fraulein, it is easy to find out how I am doing." Stroking his hand over the girl's hair, Klavier gives her a small but very genuine smile. "So long as I am doing my job, you will be able to follow me through the news."

Trucy narrows her eyes. "If you're going to be like that, I'm going to lay in wait for you in the prosecutor's lobby when you least expect it and demand you talk to us. Uncle Edgeworth will let me."

This time Phoenix just sighs.

Klavier keeps his attention focused on Trucy. "Now that you have told me, it will not be as much of a surprise, ja?"

"You don't know when I'll be here or who or what I'll be with." Trucy sticks her tongue out at him. "So it'll be a whole lot easier if you just call every week or so, yeah?"

"I will endeavor to keep you updated, though I fear my life has become rather boring lately. There is not much I will be doing that your companions at the Agency will not also be doing." Except for the fact that _they_ save people, while _he_ sends them to their deaths.

( _Is this what you imagined when you turned on me, Klavier?_ Kristoph's voice had been so quiet, so calm, more contemplative than accusatory after his sentence was read. Death by hanging, to be carried out when all Kristoph's appeals have been exhausted. _Is this where your justice leads—to your best friend's and your brother's blood on your hands?_ )

"Klavier, promise me." Trucy's hand is warm as it grasps his, her expression deathly earnest. " _Promise_ me you're going to keep in touch with us, and that you're going to be okay."

Klavier once again dredges up his stage-door smile. "I promise. I will call you, and I will be fine."

Trucy's fingers squeeze his, but there is abruptly a sheen of tears in her eyes, and she turns and runs before he can say anything more.

Phoenix follows her back into the building, throwing Klavier an accusatory look as he does, and Klavier finds himself alone in the parking lot.

Picking up his bag, he turns and slowly makes his way to his car, each step feeling like far more work than it should.

XXX

"Trucy?" Phoenix catches up to his daughter in a small alcove, next to a tree that could be Charlie's twin. Except, Phoenix realizes as he settles down next to Trucy's shivering body, _this_ plant is plastic, while Charlie is still, by some miracle, alive. "Trucy, what is it?"

Trucy's right hand is at her collar, her left wrapped around her middle, and small shivers shake her shoulders. "He..."

Reaching out gingerly, Phoenix strokes Trucy's back, hand moving in small circles. He doesn't understand. Gavin had seemed perfectly normal to him—reticent and stand-offish with Phoenix, yes, but neither of them is the other's favorite person. Gavin stole seven years of Phoenix's life; Phoenix will be there to watch Gavin's brother hang. They've little reason to like each other, though Phoenix doesn't begrudge Trucy the affection that she clearly feels for the young prosecutor, and Gavin has been kind enough to both Trucy and Apollo over the course of their acquaintance.

"He's _lying_ , Daddy." Trucy looks up at him, her eyes holding a combination of tears, fear, and outrage. "About both things! He's not going to keep in touch with me, and he's... he's really not okay. At all. And I... I don't think he can imagine himself being okay again."

"Ah." Phoenix sighs, closing his eyes for a moment, keeping his hand on Trucy's back. He should have guessed what she was doing, really, when she insisted that Gavin give her a straight answer to both requests. Trucy may not have a bracelet to help her pick up on lies, but her eyes are sharp and her instincts sharper, and if she knows exactly when to be looking... "It could just be that he's busy, you know. Uncle Edgeworth doesn't see us for stretches of time when work's super busy."

" _Prosecutor_ Edgeworth also tells us when he's not going to be around for a while, and he'll call you if things change." Trucy stares up at him, eyes still filled with worry.

"Well..." Phoenix sighs again. "Trucy, I'm sure he's fine. You saw him in court today, right? He did fantastically. He fought hard, he played to the gallery, he played the judge... that wasn't the performance of someone who's really in trouble. Yeah?"

Trucy bites her lip for a moment before nodding reluctantly. "He did do really well. Just as well as when he's been facing Polly and me."

"Maybe he just doesn't like phones. Maybe it was the calling you part that was the lie, but he'll send you letters or something." Phoenix shrugs. "Or maybe he's planning on starting up that silly band of his again and—"

"The Gavinners are _not_ silly, they're _awesome_!" Trucy glares up at him, indignant.

Which is at least an improvement, and Phoenix raises both hands in mock surrender. "All right, maybe he's going to get his _awesome_ band up and running again. I know there've been a bunch of different groups asking him for just one more performance, including his alma mater. Things like that can keep you really busy."

"I guess." Trucy considers, expression sliding from dubious to hopeful. "You're probably right, Daddy. But can we ask Uncle Edgeworth to keep an eye on him anyway? I like Klavier, and I know he was really hurt after... after everything, and I want to make sure he's all right."

"We'll ask him." Phoenix ruffles Trucy's hair, earning a swat to his hand as Trucy grumbles about how he's going to make it stick up. "But I'm sure Edgeworth's already got an eye on him, so don't you worry, all right?"

Trucy nods. "All right! Time to catch the bus home so we can get ready for my magic show tonight?"

Phoenix glances at his watch and nods, rising a bit more slowly than Trucy and ambling after her through the far-better-dressed crowds. If anyone recognizes him, they don't say anything, and Phoenix is glad to be just another spectator for a little bit. He will have to retake the bar exam—soon, if he wants to help Edgeworth with his problem, and he has already filed most of the paperwork—but being in the courthouse is still a strange combination of heady excitement and bitter despair.

Maybe helping Athena and Apollo through a few more cases will help excitement overwrite all the darker emotions.

"Daddy, come _on_." Trucy tugs on his hand, dragging him along.

Phoenix follows, smiling at one of the best things to ever happen to him—something he most likely wouldn't have had if not for Kristoph and Klavier Gavin and the mess they made of his life.

He spares a few seconds to hope that Klavier really is all right, but then they're out in the sun and running to catch a bus that is already pulling away and all thoughts of the Gavins fade away, lost beneath the hectic beauty that is his life.

XXX

"Open the door, Gavin."

Klavier flinches, though the whispered words are his own. Too much like Kristoph. He sounds too much like Kristoph when he whispers, but he can't speak any louder, and singing is right out of the question until he's back in his own office.

An office that is just on the other side of the door in front of him, and all he needs to do is reach out his hand and twist the knob, but he can't bring himself to do it.

"There's nothing terrible in there." Even if he sounds like Kristoph, there is still a chance he will be able to talk himself into doing what should be _easy_. "Just paperwork. Just finish filing the paperwork—"

Record the _guilty_ verdict, set it in stone and create defenses against false appeals, because he _is_ certain, he _has_ to be certain, there is _no other possible culprit—_

"Gavin?"

He _flinches_ , a shuddering of his whole body away from the name, and Klavier raises panicked eyes to find Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth staring at him.

"Prosecutor Gavin?" The way Edgeworth says the name makes it clear that this is a slow repetition of what he said before.

Klavier draws a deep breath. _His_ name, his title, and he needs to pull himself together and stop looking like an absolute idiot in front of his boss. "Sir. Is there something I can do for you?"

"I was bringing you a new case, as well as my congratulations on another job well done." Edgeworth gestures with a file that is held loosely in his left hand. The fingers of his right are drumming in rhythm against his leg, and his eyes are still fixed warily on Klavier.

"Well, then, let me invite you in." Klavier's fingers still want to slide away from the door handle, as though it were red-hot, but Klavier forces them to behave. He will not embarrass himself more than he already has.

"An interesting choice of decor." Edgeworth inclines his head toward the stuffed animals that Klavier is still holding as Klavier throws open the door and maneuvers himself, his bag, and the box inside.

"A gift, from a..." Klavier hesitates, not certain what word to use for Trucy. Friend? Rival, since she stands with Apollo against him in court? Eventually he falls back on old habits. "From a fan."

"Hmm." The noise that Edgeworth makes is difficult to parse—strange, because Edgeworth is usually a very up-front and almost confrontational man, for all his dignity and poise. He follows Klavier into his office, though, closing the door behind him.

Klavier drops his bag next to his desk, dumps the box with the stuffed animals on top of it, and gestures for Edgeworth to seat himself before realizing that the visitor's chair has about four inches of paperwork and a tray with last night's attempt at forcing food into his system on it.

Edgeworth just looks at the chair, staying where he is, only a faint twitch of one eyebrow indicating his disapproval.

Klavier tries not to flush, though he can feel his face heating. He is not the most orderly person at the best of times, and if he is being honest with himself the last few weeks have not been the best of times. He can find what he needs, though—especially now that he has stripped everything related to the Gavinners from his office and exiled the half-completed songs that he hasn't touched in over a month to the darkness of a bottom drawer. Since Edgeworth will have to stand, Klavier stays standing. Gesturing at the file in Edgeworth's hand, he hopes the man will simply hand it over and leave Klavier to drown himself in yet more work. "That is a case you wish for me to handle?"

"Yes." Edgeworth speaks with quiet precision, stepping forward and holding out the file for Klavier to take. "I think you'll find it a relatively open-and-shut affair, Gavin, b..."

Klavier raises his eyes to meet Edgeworth's sharp gaze, then hastily lowers them to the file again. It's clear that something he did has upset Edgeworth, but he can't imagine what it is. "I will begin work immediately. Detective Skye and I will keep you updated on our findings."

"Do that, Klavier." Miles' right hand is still drumming against his leg, and his eyes are narrowed behind his glasses.

Klavier flips past the photos of the body, heading for the autopsy report and the crime scene photos. He will come back to the body later, when he has a better idea what he may need to look for—when he will know _this_ victim, and not imagine someone else's face over theirs. "No problem, Herr Katze."

" _Katze?_ "

Klavier's head jerks up, and he winces as he realizes that he just used the nickname he crafted for Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth months ago in front of the man himself. "Sorry, sir, I—"

Edgeworth raises his right hand in a clear gesture for Klavier to shut up. When he speaks, it's in German—a clear and precise German, with the same accent that Klavier himself has. Did Edgeworth spend time in a German university at some point? "No need to apologize, Klavier. I somehow managed to forget that you're bilingual as well."

Given that Edgeworth doesn't seem terribly upset at him, Klavier decides engaging in the conversation would probably be best and allows the file to fall shut. "It would have been hard to pass the bar exam there without speaking the language, ja?"

"Indeed." Edgeworth continues in German, and Klavier finds himself relaxing almost despite himself, smiling at the familiar contours of the language he loves and usually has little excuse to speak outside concerts and trips back to Europe. "My sister tells me stories about the German bar exam and how much more difficult it is than ours. That could just be Franziska, though—she sometimes has a tendency to exaggerate if she thinks it will give her a leg up. I'm sure you don't want to hear about my family, though."

Klavier is actually rather curious about Miles Edgeworth and his mystery German sister—he has heard nothing about Edgeworth having any family whatsoever. The man seems to be married to his job and a permanent fixture in either the Chief Prosecutor's office or the precinct. The only thing humanizing about him that Klavier has observed so far in their acquaintance is the Steel Samurai statue sitting on his windowsill, and Klavier was never sure quite what to make of it.

Edgeworth continues. "I was more curious that you decided to call me _cat_."

Klavier shrugs. "I also considered Silver Fox, but I thought people might get the wrong idea."

The corners of Edgeworth's lips twitch in what might be the faintest smile Klavier has ever seen. "Yes, I could see that. Well, Prosecutor Gavin, I..."

Again a pause, a tensing of Edgeworth's muscles and a tightening of his eyes that deepens the furrow on his brow. Klavier can feel his fingers tighening around the file, crushing the edge as adrenaline floods his veins again, at a loss as to what he may be doing to cause upset. Unless Edgeworth really doesn't like the nickname? He can always come up with another one, it's not like—

"Call me whatever you want when there are no subordinates around. And use whichever language you want. It will help to keep me from getting rusty." Edgeworth slips back into English between one sentence and the next. "Is there... anything that you need, Klavier?"

Klavier stares at his boss.

Edgeworth stares back at him.

The silence stretches, long and awkward, and Klavier forces a smile onto his face. "I am fine, Herr Katze. I will have papers on your desk to sign within the hour from my trial, and then I will join Detective Skye and begin working on this one. Is there anything else you need from me?"

"No." Edgeworth's chest moves in what appears to be a silent sigh. "Carry on, Prosecutor Gavin."

Turning on his heel, Edgeworth stalks out of Klavier's cluttered office, closing the door with a soft _click_ behind him.

Collapsing down in his chair, Klavier allows himself a minute to catch his breath and still the trembling of his hands before he throws himself back into his work with a vengeance.

XXX

Phoenix takes the stairs up to the Chief Prosecutor's office.

He _could_ take the elevator—unlike Edgeworth, he has nothing against elevators—but, as Edgeworth says, the stairs are good exercise.

And it means he won't end up stuck in an elevator trying to explain or evade explaining his presence to someone who may-or-may-not know who he is.

His suit feels heavy and awkward on his body still. He supposes he will get used to it—remembers when he used to love the way a suit felt and looked on him, proof along with his badge that he was someone respectable, someone to be listened to. He has spent so much time slouching and hiding his identity and avoiding the spotlight over the last few years that it feels strange to dress up again now.

Edgeworth would not be very happy if he showed up in the Chief Prosecutor's office dressed in his usual outfit, though, and this is what the suit is _for_. For taking his life back. For getting used to being a part of the legal system again. For being Phoenix Wright, defense attorney, even if his lapel is still barren and the date for his retaking the bar exam still up in the air—not because anyone has thrown any roadblocks in his way, it has so far been a remarkably easy process, but because he hasn't chosen a date yet.

And he is taking the stairs up Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth's office, though he has been invited, has every right to be in the building.

He doesn't meet anyone in the corridor leading to Edgeworth's door. It _is_ after hours, so Phoenix supposes that most of those who aren't preternaturally driven have gone home.

Knocking on the door, he waits for Edgeworth's soft _come in_ before entering.

"Wright." Edgeworth actually smiles as he looks up from some papers he is signing. "Thank you for coming."

"How could I turn down an invitation from you, Edgeworth?" Phoenix returns the smile. "So what's up? More information on Blackquill's case and this phantom we're chasing?"

"I wish." Miles sighs, pushing papers out of the way so that he has room to rest his elbows on his desk. "No, nothing quite so... professional, I'm afraid. I'm sorry if I gave you that impression when I asked you to meet me."

"Not professional?" Phoenix ignores the guest chair, knowing it will put him on a lower level than Edgeworth so that Edgeworth can stare down at and intimidate him. As if being stared at by a man who can spend hours debating Steel Samurai minutia with Maya could ever be truly intimidating. Instead he settles himself on the edge of Miles' desk, staring down into his silver eyes. "Does that mean this is a personal visit?"

"It means I need to talk to you about something..." Edgeworth pauses, clearly choosing his words carefully as he leans back in his chair. "Something related to the Prosceutor's Office, but that you might find... difficult."

Phoenix narrows his eyes. "This isn't about me getting my badge back, right? Because I'm working on it. I'm almost there. Or is this about Apollo or Athena? If someone's gunning for one of them—"

"No, your proteges are fine. So far as I know, at least." Edgeworth sighs, left hand creeping across his chest until his fingers tighten on his right arm. "It's about Gavin."

"Gavin." Phoenix repeats the name, relieved that this isn't some new trouble, not certain he likes the idea of old trouble resurfacing. "Kristoph or Klavier?"

"Kristoph's on death row, and I intend to make sure he stays there, helpless and hopeless, until his execution." There is a savage certainty to the way Miles bites out the words, an almost feral viciousness that Phoenix finds gratifying. Edgeworth's stance relaxes again once he has said that, and he continues in a calmer voice. "It's Prosecutor Klavier Gavin I need to talk to you about. I need to know what you did to the boy."

" _What?_ " Phoenix stands, pacing from one end of Edgeworth's desk to the other. "What _I_ did to _him_? What—wait, has something happened to him? Is he all right?"

"He's physically fine, at least so far as I know. He's probably still at a crime scene with Ema Skye, though I haven't heard anything from their group for a few hours." Edgeworth stands, as well, coming around the desk to face Phoenix squarely. "But I found him trying to talk himself into opening his office door this afternoon. He flinched every time I said his family name or his title. And he had a box set of stuffed animals with a tag saying it was from Trucy Wright. Since I doubt that Trucy is engaging in psychological warfare with my subordinates..."

"I didn't do anything to him." Phoenix glares up at Edgeworth, hating the way his voice sounds. Defensive. Cornered. "Trucy gave him the toys. They're legal-themed, just like the rest of his work, and cute."

"Ah." Edgeworth inclines his head a fraction. "And the fact that one is based off of _you_ , and Klavier was the one who was responsible for your uncalled-for disbarment...?"

"I don't think Trucy's put together that Rhiny's supposed to be me." Phoenix finds his gaze falling to his shoes. "And I don't intend to talk to her about it, because that trial... she's the one who gave me the false evidence. Because Kristoph was playing her, like he played everyone, but... I don't want her to have to think about it."

"You may very well be underestimating her intelligence as well as her resilience, Wright." Edgeworth shakes his head, shoulders moving in a faint shrug. "Far be it from me to give you parenting advice—"

Phoenix snorts. "Oh, yes, far be it from you, Uncle Edgeworth, you have had _nothing_ to do with her upbringing, oh sugar daddy who flies us to Europe—"

"But was that _all_ that happened this afternoon?" Edgeworth pointedly ignores all that Phoenix said. "Trucy gave him a gift?"

"And I maybe might have implied that Phanty should be purple and black."

Edgeworth's mouth turns down into a small frown.

"I didn't _mean_ anything by it, Edgeworth, it just—"

Miles raises a hand. "That's all? That was the extent of your interactions?"

"Yeah." Phoenix frowns. "Well, Trucy also wanted Gavin to promise he'd keep in touch with her and that he was all right, and he did but she thought..."

Miles raises his right eyebrow.

Phoenix continues in a whisper, raising his right hand to cover his face. "She thought he was lying. About both parts. And I convinced her she was wrong, that he was all right..."

Silence settles between them for a moment, and then Miles' hand reaches out, gently brushes against Phoenix's left. "I don't think she was wrong, Phoenix. I think Klavier Gavin is very, very close to breaking. He's good at hiding it, can smile and continue to do his job admirably, but having been there myself..."

Phoenix nods, turning away from Edgeworth, right hand covering his mouth for a few seconds as he tries to decide what to say. Tries to decide what he _feels_ , a confusing mish-mash of sorrow and frustration and euphoric _satisfaction_ , that Klavier is suffering as Phoenix suffered, and he hates that there is a portion of him that can take satisfaction in the boy's pain but he is old enough now to know that denying it exists won't be enough to exorcise it. "And what does this have to do with me?"

"Phoenix..." Miles breathes out the name with a depth of sympathy and compassion that most people wouldn't expect from the Demon Prosecutor, and Phoenix can feel himself shivering as he leans back against the warm body that is suddenly right behind him.

It was a foolish question, anyway. Klavier Gavin is hurting for the same reason Phoenix himself is still hurting.

He thought it would all go away, once he was declared to be innocent. He thought that things could go back to the way they were before, that he would be able to help Apollo and Athena and Edgeworth do their jobs and know he was making things _better_ and it wouldn't _hurt_ so much.

He thought it would make people _happy_ , learning that he had never been a fraud and a liar, but he underestimated how much damage the legal system has taken over the years. Though the Jurist System has helped with some of it—giving power to the people, distributing it from one person's hands into several—it hasn't been nearly enough. There is too much corruption, have been too many disappointments, and there are still those who think he bought his innocence.

The days of rising stars Phoenix Wright and Miles Edgeworth, two sides of the same coin who were going to fix the system and protect the people, can't ever really be reclaimed.

"What do you want me to do, Phoenix?" Miles' words are a soft whisper against his ear.

"I don't suppose going back in time and undoing the entire Dark Age of the Law is an option, huh?" Phoenix closes his eyes, relishing the comfort of physical contact, of _support_.

"No." Edgeworth's hands tighten. "But I can do... whatever you want. Fire him. _Push_ him, see how he breaks—"

" _No!_ " Phoenix lurches forward, out of Miles' embrace, elbowing the man in the chest with a bit more force than he intended in the process. "Fuck, Miles, why would you even think..."

Miles rubs at his side, though he doesn't wince. "I didn't think you would. That's why I made the offer. You gave me back my morals, Wright, and I trust you not to break them so easily."

"I didn't _give_ you anything, you were already a decent person." Crossing his arms over his chest, Phoenix scowls at the silver-haired man. "And I'm not the same person I was a decade ago."

"No, but if they ever manage to break you to the point where you're willing to have me abuse my power or drive a man to suicide, I'm buying an island, you, Trucy, and I are moving there, and we're never talking to another human being ever again."

"I'll enjoy watching you try to figure out how to grow grapes, since I doubt we'll want to give up wine on your wonderful deserted island." Phoenix arches one eyebrow. "Also we're bringing more people—Apollo and Athena at least. Maya and Pearls, if they want to come. And Gumshoe, he'll be sad if you leave him behind. Which means Maggey and—"

"Stop listing everyone who will need to be dead in order for you to reach that low point, Wright." Edgeworth's mouth twitches, in what Phoenix knows is a suppressed smile. "But since you _don't_ want Klavier broken, could you please refrain from any more mind games with him?"

"Yeah." Phoenix rubs at the back of his neck, feeling his face flush with shame. "I really didn't mean it, Edgeworth. I just... sometimes, seeing him in court, I remember how arrogant and self-righteous and—"

"I know." Edgeworth settles down into his seat with a sigh. "I don't blame you for hating him."

"But I _don't_." Phoenix's right hand clenches into a fist, and he forces the fingers to untense one by one as he realizes that he's not _sure_. He doesn't _want_ to hate Klavier, doesn't want to hurt the younger man or himself more than either of them already has been, but if Miles had a magatama, if he had Apollo's eyes, if he had Athena's ears... would Phoenix's declaration be a lie? Phoenix's tongue stumbles on even as he reels back, yet another bitter piece of knowledge about himself to add to the list of things Kristoph's little gambit revealed. "I _know_ he didn't know what he was doing. But he also didn't _check_. He had _seven years_ to figure out who I was, to wonder why I would possibly have done what Kristoph accused me of doing... and he never looked into it. Because he trusted his brother, because he was _young_ , but it... hurts."

"Yes." Miles rubs the fingers of his right hand along his left wrist, something Phoenix knows means he is thinking of Von Karma. Or Gant. Or any of the others that they have taken down, in what looks, year after year, more and more like a Don Quixote fight against corruption. "The pains of the past can be hard to let go of."

For a few seconds Phoenix just stands in front of Miles' desk, gazing out the window at the illuminated skyline of the city. "So... what are you going to do?"

"About Klavier?" Edgeworth shrugs. "I don't know."

"Can't you just... I don't know... order him to go to counseling?" Phoenix frowns. "You _are_ Chief Prosecutor, and that would probably be more helpful than threatening to fire him."

"I'm not sure it would be." Rubbing at his left eye, Edgeworth shakes his head. "I can order him into counseling. I've been thinking about it all afternoon. But I also know that it did me no good after the DL-6 incident."

Phoenix blinks. "They... made you go to counseling?"

"Once they had decided that I was actually innocent, yes." Edgeworth returns to rubbing at his wrist. "We aren't _completely_ incompetent, you know. Or completely corrupt. And it's clear to even the thickest individual that some incidents will leave... scars. So part of my continued employment was dependent upon completing a psychological evaluation with a therapist."

Phoenix thinks back to the months after they had defeated both Von Karma and Gant, to the terrible weeks when he had watched Edgeworth spiral in on himself, the months that had culminated in Edgeworth's disappearance. "It... didn't seem to do much good."

"It doesn't, if you don't want to be there." Miles raises his eyes to meet Phoenix's gaze. "Especially for people like us—people like Klavier. We're used to performing, him even more than either of us. We know, more or less, how we're _supposed_ to be acting, and we keep the front up until we... can't."

Until it's not possible, and Phoenix shivers as he thinks back to watching Klavier this morning. Perhaps Klavier had looked... twitchy, more jittery than usual, and he hadn't played the air guitar at all, but he had performed so _well_...

"I'm sure I haven't been helping." Miles pulls a sheet of paper from the top drawer of his desk, frowning at it in frustration. "He's one of my best people. Competent. No signs of corruption that I could find, when I was going through everyone's case histories. Works well with others. So I've been assigning him a pretty heavy case load."

"You didn't know, Miles."

"I didn't _look_." Miles begins drawing arrows, clearly attempting to redistribute work. "Which is, sometimes, the greater sin."

"No." Shaking his head, Phoenix closes his eyes, picturing the seventeen-year-old Klavier he had first met, then the young adult who smiled at Trucy this afternoon as he lied to her in an attempt to give her comfort. "No matter what they say, ignorance _is_ actually a pretty damn good reason to be wrong, and a far lesser sin than actively injuring someone. If you're not going to force him into counseling, what are you going to do?"

"I don't know." Miles taps the tip of his pen against the paper, leaving small ink spots in a dotted line. "Talk to him, I suppose, see if he'll talk to me. He... didn't seem terribly interested when I tried this afternoon, though."

"Yeah, you're his boss and you're scary."

"I am not scary—"

"Let me see what I can do." Phoenix speaks over Edgeworth.

For a moment Edgeworth just stares at him. Then he slowly sets the pen down, nodding. "That... would probably be a good idea, actually, if you're willing. If the two of you could find some sort of peace with each other..."

"Maybe, but I'm not sure how interested he'll be in talking to me, either." And Phoenix doesn't quite trust himself, still, doesn't quite know what words will come out of his mouth if he is alone with Klavier Gavin for any length of time. "But we _do_ have a lot of mutual acquaintances. If one of them can't convince him that he needs to take some time, get his head sorted out, we've always got forced therapy on the back-burner, right?"

"Wright—" Any time there is that note of exasperation it is _definitely_ his name.

"Exactly, right." Phoenix smiles, continuing on as though he doesn't know what Edgeworth is trying to say. "It's a good plan."

Edgeworth narrows his eyes. "This is most likely a delicate situation. I don't want you playing head games with him and accidentally..."

It hangs there between them still, not actually needing to be named, even after nine years.

"I'm not going to let him quit or kill himself or anything else ridiculous." Phoenix says the words with utter certainty—an _honest_ certainty, one he feels to his very core. "You said he's one of your best? Well, we've got few enough people we can trust to stand with us against corruption, I'm not letting one get lost because of a little bad blood in the past. Besides, Trucy likes him, and anyone who makes Trucy sad has to deal with both of us, right?"

Miles shakes his head. "Sometimes I worry we're going to spoil that girl."

"And then you see her again, and you're once more wrapped around her little finger." Phoenix grins. "Speaking of, were you planning on going to her show tonight? It should be starting in about twenty minutes."

Edgeworth looks down at the papers spread across his desk. "I should really continue working."

"It's after seven thirty. I think you're allowed to leave it for tomorrow. Unless there's something you absolutely can't leave...?"

"No, I suppose not." Standing, Edgeworth frowns at Phoenix. "Though shouldn't you be trying to think of a plan to deal with Klavier?"

"I am. And I will continue to think while we watch my wonderful daughter perform magic tricks. Come _on_ , Edgeworth, you haven't gotten to see her for almost two weeks."

"All right, all right." Edgeworth pulls a set of car keys from the top drawer of his desk. "I presume you want me to drive?"

Phoenix grins sheepishly. "How'd you guess?"

"Because you're not getting there in twenty minutes on public transportation at this time of night." Miles holds open the office door for Phoenix to exit, flicking off the light as he does. "Promise me you'll find a way to help him? Or tell me if you can't, so that we can look into other options?"

"Promise." Phoenix squeezes Edgeworth's shoulder. "So come relax for a little bit, all right? You won't be doing anyone any favors working yourself into exhaustion or depression, too."

"I know. It's sometimes hard to accept, especially with Blackquill and the Phantom looming, but I know." Miles' hand covers Phoenix's for a brief moment before he is striding down the hall toward the stairwell, coat billowing behind him. "Come on, Wright. We don't want to be late."

Phoenix follows Miles to his car, content with his imperfect life for the moment, mind already working on ways he can help Klavier Gavin find the same kind of peace.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Mr. Wright!"

Ema launches herself at him when Phoenix is still just half-standing from his chair, and he only keeps them from falling to the ground by putting one hand on the table behind him.

"Oh, man, you look _fantastic_!" Ema takes a step back, her right hand moving to rest on her hip as she looks him up and down. "I wouldn't have believed you could clean up so nice."

Phoenix looks down at his blazer and waistcoat and tie, a smile stealing its way across his face. He supposes he _does_ look nice like this, and it fits both the little restaurant he's treating Ema to and the topic of discussion he has planned for today quite well.

"Though I do miss the hat and my beautiful little toy." Ema pokes at his forehead, at the spot where the button she gave him usually sits. "Very _helpful_ little toy, I might add."

"Extremely helpful." Phoenix grins at the young woman, moving to pull out the seat across from his and gesturing for her to settle down. "I couldn't have taken Kristoph down without your help."

"All I did was help you rig a little spy camera." Ema drops her bag next to her chair and settles down with a sigh. " _You're_ the one who completely rewrote the legal system."

"Not completely." Shaking his head, Phoenix settles down as well. "Just gave it a few tweaks to help it run a little smoother, that's all."

"I'd say bringing back a relic of the past, proving its usefulness, and helping to weed out some of the corruption in the system all after being carefully excised from said system is a little bit more than that." Ema watches him with wonder-filled eyes.

Eyes that remind him of the girl who first came to him to help prove her sister's innocence, remind him hauntingly of the way she looked at Edgeworth back then, and he turns to the menu and clears his throat. "Order whatever you want. It's on me."

"Oh really?" Ema flips open her menu. "Business must be pretty good at the Agency, then. Or are you anticipating landing a couple dozen big cases when word gets around that your hat's back in the ring soon?"

Phoenix blinks. "What?"

"You! Retaking the bar exam, getting your badge back." Ema drops her voice to a quiet whisper. "I know you haven't been announcing it yet, but word's been getting around the precinct, and I think it's _awesome_. I can't wait to see you back at the defense's bench."

"Yeah, well..." Phoenix forces out a half-hearted chuckle. "It won't be that different from how things are right now. I'll probably still have Apollo and Athena handling most of the cases. They're younger, after all."

"You're barely into your thirties, Mr. Wright." Ema frowns.

"That makes me ancient by the rock-star standards the press and the public likes, right?" He has gotten good at forcing a smile, over the years, though it is always hardest with his friends.

"Are you..." Ema's fingers scrape gently over the surface of the menu. "Do you... not like how things have turned out?"

"What? No!" Phoenix shakes his head, a more honest smile rising. "I'm really happy with how a lot of things have gone. Apollo and Athena are wonderful lawyers—"

"With you on Justice, though you haven't properly introduced me to Athena yet."

"I'll get to it as soon as I can, things got a bit hectic as soon as she arrived. Returning to topic, I think, even if this is the so-called Dark Age of the Law, that it's not really that bad. Or maybe..." Phoenix shrugs. "Maybe I can just see the dawn coming. But we've gotten rid of a lot of corruption. We've spread out power so that it won't be quite so easy for corruption to sneak back in. We've got good people in good positions. We're getting there."

Ema nods, expression contemplative. "Then why did you look so sad?"

"Because I get tired, sometimes. Ten years is a long time to fight." Looking away from Ema, Phoenix rubs at the right side of his head. "No better crew to fight beside than you guys, though. And I'm nowhere near giving up."

"You better not be." A nudge of Ema's foot against his shin under the table draws his eyes back to her fierce, determined expression. "So what do you need me for, Mr. Wright? Need another gadget? More spy equipment?"

"Not exactly." Phoenix hesitates, then decides that straight-forward is probably the best policy for this interview. "I wanted to know what your opinions on Klavier Gavin are."

"The glimmerous fop?" Ema blinks, then flushes. "I mean..."

" _Glimmerous_." Phoenix tries out the word. "I like the sound of that. Very fitting for the way that Gavin dresses. And maybe a few other people we know. Fop, though... I take it you aren't very fond of him?"

Ema just stares at him, expression torn—expression _concerned_ , concerned for _him_ , and Phoenix remembers Apollo's descriptions of Ema the first time he met her. Remembers other bitter remarks he's heard, frustrations she has voiced, and understands, abruptly, some of her reticence. "I'm not mad at him, Ema. For any of what happened. I just want your honest opinion of him."

"Honestly? He's a decent guy." Ema shrugs, looking down at the white tablecloth, picking at it with her fingernails. "Probably one of the most decent prosecutors I've worked with, aside from Prosecutor Edgeworth. He's thorough and intelligent. Also vain, proud of his accomplishments, obsessed with Germany, overly fond of music and the sound of his own voice. But... overall a decent guy. If you and Prosecutor Edgeworth are looking for corruption, you're not going to find it there."

"We weren't suspecting him of corruption. Though it's good to know you trust his dedication to the truth, at least." Phoenix sighs. If everyone assumes he's gunning for Klavier because of a few snarky comments, what must they think of his relationship with Apollo?

Though he knows that's not fair. Knows that it's the snarky comments in combination with the fact that he and Klavier have met fewer times than he has fingers on one hand, and in those times managed to systematically dismantle each other's lives. Knows that his friends are trying to show their concern for him by showing him a united front against someone they assume to be his enemy, but at this point it's _really_ not helpful.

Ema frowns. "Why are you interested in Gavin, then?"

"Edgeworth's worried about him. Trucy, too."

Ema's frown only deepens. "Trucy tends not to worry about people without reason. You think there's something going on with the glimmerous fop?"

"I think you like the sound of that nickname a little too much."

"Given that his brilliant nickname for me is _Fraulein Detective_ , I think I win all the points."

Their waiter appears, and Phoenix decides to wait until he's gone to resume their conversation.

Ema beats him to it, though, waiting just long enough for the waiter to be out of earshot before leaning towards him. "You think someone's threatening him?"

Phoenix blinks. "I had been assuming it was just the stress of the last eighteen months catching up with him, but I... suppose it's possible. Have you noticed anything that would make that seem likely?"

"No." Ema seems to deflate a bit. "And I guess he's been through a lot, huh? Never seemed to slow him down, though. If anything it seems like it got him really focused. Ever since he disbanded the Gavinners he's been going through about three times as many cases. Keeps me busy. Also pays me pretty decently, though, which is more than we can say for three-quarters of the prosecutors."

"Yeah..." Phoenix decides, given Edgeworth's history with detectives and salary reviews, he should probably just avoid that conversation. "Do you have any idea what he does outside work? Any friends that he talks about, anything that he likes to do?"

"Now that you mention it... not really." Ema swirls the ice cubes aroud in her water glass with her index finger. "He used to talk about the Gavinners a lot, and about his music. When I first started we couldn't be working together more than an hour or so before he'd start humming some insipid melody. He... doesn't really do that anymore."

Phoenix winces. Why couldn't Daryan Crescend have chosen a better time—preferrably an earlier time—to reveal his true colors? Losing a friend and his brother within the span of a few months must have been difficult for Klavier. At least Daryan hadn't been connected to Phoenix in any way.

"And he doesn't really talk about anyone outside work. But, I mean, he's never really been one to talk about his family. I worked with him for weeks before I knew he had a brother." The ice cubes in Ema's glass continue to tinkle and spin in a circle even after she takes her hand away. "Klavier gets along with _everyone_ , though. Apollo and I were considered outliers because we weren't instantly charmed by His Majesty the Prosecutor King of Rock. He's got to have _someone_ out there who's helping him through. Right?"

"Right." Phoenix nods his agreement with Ema's theory, though there is a sinking feeling in his gut that whispers perhaps the answer is _no_. "I'm still going to be looking into things, though, seeing if there's something else we can do to try to help him out. Edgeworth says it's more effort than it's worth, trying to break in new semi-decent people, and he'd like to just give the ones he's got a good tune-up if he can. So try to be nice to him for the next little while, okay? And if you notice anything you think I should know or that Edgeworth should know, call one of us."

"You got it, Mr. Wright." Ema grins. "Any time you need help stalking my boss, you just let me know."

"It's not really _stalking_ , it's just..." Phoenix sighs, recognizes the grin and the glint in Ema's eyes. There are some things it's just not worth arguing about. "Thanks, Ema. I really appreciate it."

"You're very welcome." Ema glances down, some of the grinning edge fading from her smile. "Though... is that all you wanted to talk to me about? You invited me out to lunch so we could discuss Gavin?"

"No." Picking up his straw wrapper, Phoenix lobs it at the young woman across from him, earning a disapproving glare from a woman at a table across the aisle. "I also wanted to see how you're doing. It's been a bit."

"Too long!" Ema's good cheer flows back as she raises her head. "Though other than still being stuck as a detective, I'm doing great."

"Edgeworth says you're a pretty great detective." Phoenix takes a sip from his own glass. "Very thorough and detail-oriented, I believe were his exact words. Apparently you and Gavin are, statistically speaking, his most successful team."

"Really?" Ema practically _glows_ , as Phoenix expected she would at any inkling of praise from Edgeworth. The glow fades after a moment, though. "Still isn't what I trained for, though."

"Maybe not, and I know that Edgeworth's going to let you retake the forensics entrance exam when it comes up." He will if Phoenix has anything to say about it, at least, especially since Phoenix still isn't convinced there wasn't some kind of corruption involved in Ema failing in the first place. "But being a detective, it seems to me, requires a bit more intelligence than being in forensics. You have to help decide what tests to run, what people to question... have to keep your team and your equipment safe..."

A soft giggle comes from Ema's side of the table, and she shakes her head. "Fine, Mr. Wright, I get the message. I'm doing good work as a detective. And it's close enough to what I originally wanted to do, I suppose, especially since now I know I can trust people on both sides. You can stop trying to come up with reasons I should stick with my job."

"I don't have to come up with reasons." Phoenix leans back, making room for the waiter to place their appetizers in front of them. "You're smart—smarter than me, definitely. You know that the work you're doing is helping people, and that simply having you _there—_ having an honest person doing honest work—makes it harder for any more corruption to sneak in."

"You're a flatterer, Mr. Wright." Ema's cell phone chimes, and she's smiling as she picks it up, though the smile thins and she gives a grumpy sigh as she types out a reply. "But I appreciate the sentiment, and I'm not quitting. Not unless Gavin gives me reason to. Like insisting I accompany him _right now_ to our crime scene when he _knows_ I'm meeting a friend for lunch."

"Remember that you're supposed to be..." Phoenix watches Ema's eyes narrow and decides silence is the best option.

After only a few seconds Ema's phone chimes again.

Ema is smiling when she finishes sending her next reply. "We're good for an hour. So, tell me all about how Trucy's doing..."

They spend the rest of their meal reminiscing and catching up, and Phoenix is smiling when he hugs Ema and bids her farewell.

Now, to continue his stalking of Klavier and figure out what it's going to take to get the young prosecutor to honestly smile, too...

XXX

Klavier paces through the basement and kitchen, stopping occasionally to shine the tiny pocket flashlight he has in hand up or down into various shadowy crevices.

He doesn't stop moving. It's rare that he can settle down when the crime scene—well, _suspected_ crime scene, in this case—is someone's house. It feels too much like he is trespassing somewhere he is not wanted. Too much like he is the one bringing sorrow and danger to halls that are painted bright yellow with cheery balloon wallpaper, though he knows that the truth is the other way around—trouble has summoned him here, made him a ghost in this cathedral to normalcy and happiness.

He wrote the Gavinners single Halloween song about the sensation of walking through the halls of a domestic crime scene. _Ghost of a Crime_ , he had originally called it, and he had been proud of the lyrics, once. Proud of the way that the lyrics twisted, making it hard to tell if the singer was a ghost or if the singer was the only solid point in a house filled with the ghosts of now-impossible futures.

He can't remember the way the lyrics go, now. It has been over two years since he sang it, the song never having been one of their most popular—except during the Halloween season, when anything remotely creepy by popular artists suddenly became quite overplayed.

Not that it matters whether he can remember the lyrics or not. He had pushed the edges of his vocal range for that song, liking the way his strained voice added to the sense of unease, and lack of practice has made that range more limited, now, than it was when he wrote it.

Forcing his thoughts away from songs and the Gavinners—both futile tracks, full of pointless waste—Klavier continues his perusal of the house. Detective Skye should be here shortly, and then he will be able to test his theory, see if he is right about where the true crime scene was. There just hadn't been quite enough blood with the body, and he wants no surprises when he finally brings in his suspect.

(Wants to be sure he is right, to be sure that if he wins, if he hears the word _guilty_ , it will not haunt him at night. (Surely, some day, he will once again be able to do his job and sleep at night. If he just does it _well_ enough, does it _right_ enough...))

The basement, he decides after his third or fourth walkthrough. That is where his true crime scene is. The basement, which looks just a bit too neat and orderly to belong to the rest of the house. The basement where a void, a lighter patch of concrete, shows that some large obect has recently been moved— _removed_ , because he doesn't find anything that could fit there in the rest of the house.

In combination with the toxicology report on the victim... yes, he likes this story much better than the one that had initially been suggested. This was no crime of passion. This was an amateur crime, certainly, but one born out of business disagreements, not passion.

And he thinks he can prove it, once Ema arrives.

He wishes she were here now, though he remembers, after her rather pointed text message, that she received permission from him yesterday evening to take an extended lunch.

Perhaps his anxiousness wouldn't be so bad if he had been able to sit and enjoy his own lunch, but eating has been distinctly unappealing for the last few days. He still does—he knows he has to, has always promised himself that no matter how much he _looks_ like a stereotypical rock star he will never descend into drugs and reckless promiscuity and eating disorders, will always remain the clean, respectable prosecutor that his first agent billed him as to win over hesitant parents. But there's no joy in eating anymore, only a quick task and a queasy, nauseous feeling afterwards that makes each subsequent meal that much harder.

Perhaps he should have had forensics meet him here, instead. It is technically forensic tests that he needs done, after all. But he _trusts_ Ema Skye, and she is as capable of doing forensics tests as an actual forensics expert, and—

" _Gavin_."

He jumps, skin crawling, stomach clenching around his unwanted meal. The voice is female, though, and not so much angry as annoyed, and after barely a second he manages to make his body obey his wishes again. Turning to the stairs, Klavier sees Detective Ema Skye outlined in the doorway, one hand on her hip.

"Were you even paying attention?" Ema trots down the stairs, tone still vaguely annoyed. "I've been calling your name since I entered the house."

"Sorry, Fraulein Detective." Klavier shrugs, hoping she wasn't able to see how badly she startled him. Ghosts should not be so easily frightened, after all—though with Ema here, brusque and quick and dedicated to science above any kind of mysticism, it is hard to conjure up the feeling that he had earlier of being a haunt in someone's collapsing life. "I could not hear you. Probably the acoustics in the building."

"Yeah, probably." Ema sighs. "The joys of houses—designed to bring people together, but not _too_ close together, because heaven forbid you be able to hear each other without shouting at the top of your lungs."

"It can be useful." Klavier tries to think of a tactful way to make his point, one that won't result in Ema glaring at him. "There are times when one really doesn't want all of one's family to be aware of one's actions."

It doesn't work. Ema is glaring at him anyway, though there is more exasperation than true anger in her stare. "Proseutor Gavin, _why_ are we here? And this is not the crime scene, by the way. You're lucky one of the beat patrol officers was complaining about having to guard an empty house for you, or I would now be fuming in the alley where the body was found."

"Did I say the crime scene?" Klavier tries to remember what he texted Ema, but even though it's only been a few hours he can't say for certain. "I am sorry, Detective Skye."

"It's all right. I'm here." Ema is still staring at him, but with an expression that he isn't used to—a curious, searching, _hesitant_ expression. "Did our suspect say something to lead us here?"

"No. She has not been brought into custody yet." Klavier looks away from Ema, pacing to where the lighter concrete sits against the far wall of the basement.

"What? Why?" Ema trails behind him. "We have her fingerprints all over the victim's clothes, and her skin under the victim's fingernails."

"No prints on the murder weapon, though. She checked into a hotel two nights ago and is scheduled to stay there all week. I am having her watched. She is not going anywhere without our knowledge, and I wanted to be absolutely certain I know what happened before bringing her in." Be certain that he isn't making a mistake. Be certain that he isn't wrong.

( _What the hell is wrong with you, Klavier?_ Daryan had screamed the words at him, the last time Daryan agreed to see him. _The Gavinners weren't just yours. You're taking money from all of us doing this—taking money from_ me _, and thanks to you I need all that I can get._ )

"Prosecutor Gavin?" Ema's hand is touching his elbow, just the faintest pressure there.

Closing his eyes, Klavier dredges up a smile. "Sorry, Fraulein Detective. Lost in my own thoughts for a moment. Do you have your kit of science toys?"

"They aren't toys, Klavier." The usual note of annoyance creeps into Ema's voice as she opens her pack, though there is something else in her stare—something assessing, something that makes Klavier want to hide. "They're important tools, and of course I have them."

"Good." Klavier doesn't meet her stare for long. "I would like to check for blood here, but I would also like to test for methamphetamine residue. Can we do both?"

"Of course we can. We'll check for the meth first, though why—oh, I get it. Tox report came back?"

"Traces of meth in the victim's blood, yes." Klavier nods. "It could, of course, be recreational, but..."

"You weren't sold on the crime of passion thing from the beginning, though, I could tell." Ema smiles at him as she pulls swabs from her pack. "Tell you the truth, I wasn't either. I like this idea much more. Good theory."

"Thank you, Fraulein Detective." Klavier takes a few steps back, rocking on the balls of his feet as he waits for Ema to do what she needs to do.

"Hey, Gav—Klavier."

Klavier opens his eye, not certain when he closed them, taken aback by the stumbling of Ema's tongue.

Ema is busy adding drops of clear liquid to a swab, watching it intently. She is staring at the swab with a ferocity that, even for Ema in the midst of doing _science_ , is unmerited. "Are you... ah, hell. What are you going to do when the unthinkable happens and they assign you another female detective to work with? Your nickname for me won't work very well then."

Klavier blinks, not certain where Ema is going with this or why she is trying to engage him in idle conversation. He had tried, when they first started working together frequently, to get to know the woman, to become friends, but she had made it clear what she thought of him, and he respected her loyalty and work ethic even if he didn't understand why she could care for someone like Wright so much.

Unless he is misreading her tone, and she is angry with him? Or considering requesting to no longer be assigned to his cases? Ah, that would make more sense, though he's not certain exactly what he's done recently to earn her ire. Was her lunch meeting that important to her? Or was it simply the straw that broke the camel's back?

"Klavier?" Ema has somehow come to stand right in front of him, is waving a hand in front of his face, her expression concerned.

Klavier doesn't remember her moving. Not good. He needs to focus. He needs to be professional and calm and together, even if he feels none of those things. Smiling for Ema, he raises his shoulders in a faint shrug. "If I were to lose the pleasure of your company and gain that of another fraulein detective, I would, of course, have to give them a completely different name. You are the only Fraulein Detective, Ema Skye—though, had I known you as well then as I do now, I would perhaps have instead given you the monicker Fraulein Science, so that I would not have to work so hard for other names."

"You could always just call them Fraulein Detective the Second, I suppose." Ema watches him with eyes that are too sharp and wary still. Then she sighs and holds up her swab, which has turned a dark purple. "We're positive for meth. Take a few more steps back, and we'll see what we've got so far as blood."

A large pool of it, Klavier sees, watching the fluorescence spread out from in front of the void on the concrete.

"Nice job." Ema packs her tools away. "I'll call forensics, have them confirm, but I'd say this gives us everything we'll need. Satisfied with our results, Prosecutor Gavin, or is there something else you'd like to look into before ordering the arrest?"

He doesn't know. For one panicked second he hesitates, not certain how to ask her to _tell him he's right_ without sounding like he's begging and pleading. Without sounding pathetic and useless. Then he smiles, his stage-door smile that feels like it is becoming more strained with every use, and shrugs. "Can you think of anything else we may need, Fraulein Science?"

"No." Ema's hand brushes against his elbow again, and her voice is softer than he is used to hearing it, lacking the harsh edge of sarcasm that usually accompanies her statements to him. "I think we've got everything we need, Klavier. I think we've done well."

"Good." Klavier nods, turning away from Ema's searching gaze and toward the stairs. "If you will take care of the forensics side of things, I will order... order the arrest."

Drawing a deep breath through clenched teeth, Klavier curses his tongue for stumbling. It is part of his _job_. It is _essential_. It is what he _does_ , ordering people's arrests.

(Ordering Daryan's arrest, ordering his brother's arrest. Pushing through Misham's testimony about Phoenix's guilt, a dog with a bone he wouldn't let go of, and he doesn't know anymore if the ones where he knows the victim was innocent or the ones where he knows they were guilty hurt more and he will still do it again, still have to trust himself and the evidence and one is untrustworthy and the other prone to manipulation and which is which—)

"Klavier, hey, steady there." Ema's hands close around his left arm, grabbing him when he misses a step and stumbles. There is blatant concern in her expression now, though there is also still that intense wariness in her eyes.

A wariness that he knows will always be there, because he is dangerous, he is too quick to believe, too gullible, and he hurt this woman he respects before he even _met_ her and his chest feels too tight and he can't seem to see but maybe he has closed his eyes again and—

"Gavin, _breathe_. _Fuck_ , I mean _Klavier_ , breathe. Calm down, it's all right." They are at the top of the stairs, somehow, and Ema has a hand on each of his arms, has maneuvered him until he is leaning against the wall.

Klavier wants to let his body slide down along the wall, to curl in on himself, to close his eyes and cover his ears and have the world just go _away_ for a little bit.

He cannot do that, though. He has already destroyed one of his legacies, disbanding the Gavinners. He must do enough good through his remaining job—must help enough people, _protect_ enough people—to make up for the damage he has done. To make up for his role and his brother's role in creating this Dark Age of the Law, where justice is bought and faith destroyed, and he can't _do_ that curled on the floor, no matter how tired or nauseous or useless he feels.

Ema has her phone out, has already pressed one button to summon help, when Klavier forces his fingers to move. Covering the keypad, Klavier shakes his head. "I am fine, Fraulein Detective. Just a bit of vertigo."

"Vertigo." Ema stares at him as though he just promised that he could scientifically prove the sky is actually purple. "Klavier, you just turned ghost-pale, started shivering, and looked like you were having trouble breathing. You don't feel like you're running a fever, but that was either one hell of a panic attack or you're really sick, and either way I'm not letting you drive your motorcycle-death-trap out of here."

"It is not a death trap. It has a very good safety rating for a motorcycle." It's easier to breathe, now, easier to talk as he falls into the familiar rhythm of defending his preferred choice of transportation.

"For a motorcycle. That's like saying that a .22 leaves a very small hole for a bullet. True, but not exactly comforting, especially if you've been shot." Ema's hand rests against his head for a moment, and Klavier closes his eyes, half wanting to lean into the touch, half wanting to flinch away from her, to remove himself and all the failures he represents from her line of sight.

(It feels like it has been a long time since he was touched, an ache he hadn't even been aware of until Trucy's hug yesterday and now Ema's touch today gives it a name, but that is no reason to take advantage of this.)

"Your color's better, and you really aren't warm." Ema takes a step back, frowning at him, clearly unsure what she should do.

"I am fine, Fraulein Science." Klavier smiles, and it is a true smile, an expression of appreciation for the kindness she is showing him. Kindness he doesn't deserve, but he appreciates it anyway, and will not let it go to waste. "If I feel faint, I will stop. I will not put anyone in danger for foolish pride."

"Mmmm." Ema continues to eye him speculatively. Then she pulls a bag of Snackoos from her satchel and holds them out to him.

Klavier stares down at the snacks, smile faltering. Ema doesn't share her snacks with anyone, except in the form of projectile missiles if she feels an underling has been particularly foolish and the crime scene will not be injured by the flying snack. Why is she offering him one now?

"Take one." Ema's eyes narrow, her expression becoming more belligerant, her tone commanding.

Why is she so eager for him to eat a silly chocolate snack? Perhaps he has entirely misread the situation and she is attempting to poison him...?

"It's not poison. It's _chocolate_." Picking one of the snacks out of the little pouch, she holds it up towards his mouth. "If you're not lying to me and you really did just feel a little faint, it might have been low blood sugar. So eat one."

"Ah." Klavier takes the small snack and chews it, swallowing it forcefully, willing his still-queasy stomach to _please_ let it stay down. Vomiting at a crime scene when there isn't even a body present would just be pathetic. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Ema nods. "You ate lunch?"

"Yes, Fraulein." Klavier just keeps himself from rolling his eyes. "Really, you are over-reacting. I am perfectly fine."

"I hope you are." Ema's gaze falls down to her shoes, her arms crossing in front of her chest. "I really hope you are and everyone's blowing things out of proportion. But I've... been through some things. Some bad things, with my sister. Thankfully she's not on death row, she'll be released in another year if she stays on good behavior, but... oh, hell, I'm not good at this. There're a lot of us on the good guys' side who've been through a whole bunch of nasty things, and if you ever need to talk about any of what _you've_ been through, we're here. Okay?"

Klavier stares at Ema. Ema has a _sister_? A sister in prison? How has he managed to miss something so important?

"G—Klavier?" Ema raises her eyes to meet his, looking hesitant and uncertain.

"Thank you, Fraulein Detective." Inclining his head, Klavier forces his body to straighten, placing his right hand to his heart. "I am honored by your care and compassion, especially given our... history. I assure you, though, you've no need to concern yourself with me. I will continue to do my job, and I will be careful not to hurt anyone."

"Do they teach 'how to be infuriating 101' in prosecutor's school? I think they must, and I also understand some of Mr. Wright's complaints a bit better." Sighing, Ema shoves the half-empty bag of Snackoos into his hand. "Eat some more before you get on your bike, all right? And if anything happens to you, Klavier, I'm going to be really upset."

"Nothing will happen to me." Klavier chews and swallows another of the little snack bites, trying not to grimace as his body protests. "And I will remember this at your next salary review."

Ema's eyes narrow. "What are you implying with that?"

Klavier shrugs. "Just that it is, perhaps, time you received a raise again."

Laughing and shaking her head, Ema opens the front door for both of them. "I take it back, you're absolutely nothing like any of the other prosecutors, Gavin."

Klavier swallows another snack bite, barely covering a wince as the coating scratches at his dry throat.

That, sadly, is very true, though not, Klavier thinks, for the reason that Ema is implying.

XXX

"He has no support network!"

Phoenix allows his head to fall forward, resting against the desk where his laptop and a notebook are currently vying for space with Miles' case files.

Miles makes a non-committal noise, continuing to peruse data bits.

"He has..." Phoenix raises his head so that he can glance at the counter on the Web site again. "As of right now, eight million, six hundred fifty nine thousand, three hundred and eighty two friends, but somehow he has _no support network_."

"You've figured out how to use Facebook?" There's a note of mild surprise to Miles' voice, and he lifts his head and pushes his glasses back up on his nose.

"I _know_ how to use Facebook, I just choose not to." Phoenix glares at Edgeworth. "There's a big difference between the two."

"If you know how Facebook works, then you know that most of those friends are likely fans of the Gavinners." Edgeworth continues to wear his usual self-satisfied smirk as he lowers his gaze back to the document he was reading. "I doubt that a teenager who thinks _Guilty Love_ is the best song ever penned is exactly who you want to have help you through the ethical dilemmas inherent in fighting againt corruption."

"I don't know. There was a seventeen-year-old once who helped me through a lot of tough times, and had more poise about it than I did." Phoenix scrolls through the status updates in reverse chronologic order. They still happen, one or two a day, Klavier's icon smiling in an easy, warm, relaxed way that Phoenix dosn't think he's seen on the actual _man_ in a month or two. The updates tell people when his trials will be, what he's working on, what Gavinners memorabilia is still available. Thank people for various gifts, with attached pictures of said gifts. There is clearly some robot that wishes people in Klavier's friend's list a happy birthday—that or Klavier spends far more time on here than Phoenix thinks he does.

There are not many personalized messages, though. None of the bright, cheerful updates and declarations of justice being served that there were seven, eight, nine months ago. No gently teasing analyses of the opposition at his trials, usually both flirtatious, whether he was facing off against a man or a woman, and frighteningly accurate in their breakdown of the defense's strengths and flaws, at least from the ones whose names Phoenix recognizes.

(None of the harsh, sharp rhetoric that had exploded six months ago, either, no battles to declare his innocence and his lack of involvement in Kristoph Gavin's schemes, no soaring calls for continued faith and trust in the system. Phoenix wants to think it's because the people Klavier was arguing with gave up, cut down by the young prosecutor's swift, sharp retorts; he suspects it is instead because Klavier simply stopped engaging in the fight.)

"Maya is different, Wright."

"Why?" Phoenix blinks as he looks up from the screen again. "She was a teenager; she likes Gavin's music. Trucy played it for her last time she and Pearls came to visit. She was also an incredible font of strength for me."

"She was seventeen, that's practically an adult, and she..." Miles sets the paper aside, fingers drumming once across his desk as he frowns. "She had been through a great deal, too."

"You have no idea what some of these fans of Klavier's might have been through. Some of them might be able to help him." Phoenix clicks the little red x to close the tab that has Klavier's facebook open. "But he hasn't reached out to them. Because, like you said, they're not actually friends. They're fans and acquaintances—"

"Perhaps even enemies." Edgeworth's shoulders rise in a faint shrug. "Social media can be a good way to keep up with what people are doing, if you need to keep an eye on them."

"Yeah, you're not convincing me to make a Facebook account any time soon. And I'm pretty sure that's not how you're supposed to use it." Phoenix shakes his head, running a hand back through his hair.

"You don't need to have one, Wright. Trucy and Maya both do, and I am, of course, following them." Edgeworth smiles, an expression of teeth and self-satisfaction. "I can keep track of you that way."

Phoenix lifts narrowed eyes to study Edgeworth's smug grin. "Sometimes I hate you."

"I know." The smug grin doesn't fade until Edgeworth's eyes land on Phoenix's notebook. "I take it you aren't having much luck with your plans?"

"Depends." Phoenix sits up a little straighter. "How'd he respond to you this morning? Did you bond over a little German?"

"He responded politely enough, but that was it." Edgeworth frowns, concern deepening the furrow on his brow. "He was anxious to get back to work, and seemed quite... wary of me."

"Yeah. Boss. Scary." Phoenix waggles the fingers on his right hand, though there's little energy in the motion.

Edgeworth doesn't take the bait, anyway. "No, more wary than usual. I think... perhaps he looked into my history with you."

Covering his face with his hand, Phoenix groans. "Why are all the decent people in the legal system connected to me in some way?"

Edgeworth's eyebrows arch. "Not all of them, but most of them, and I think we both know the reason for that."

Phoenix shakes his head. Edgeworth has a tendency to give him far too much credit when it comes to the fight against corruption in the system—especially given how much of the work Edgeworth himself has done. "All right. New plan of attack."

Phoenix's eyes roam over the notes he's made on Klavier Gavin's life and career, catching on his hand-written copy of the text he receieved from Ema earlier in the day. _Think Gavin had a panic attack at the crime scene today. Won't talk to me about it but promised me a raise. No letting him quit until I get it._

 _Quit._ Phoenix underlines the word, hoping that Ema is seeing things more clearly, with less prejudice, than he and Edgeworth are. Not that he's going to accept Klavier quitting, either. Klavier is _good_ at his job and he clearly once _loved_ it and Phoenix isn't going to let all that fall apart because of _him_.

"He _had_ a support network, once." Phoenix taps the little diagram he sketched a third of the way down the page. Klavier's name sits in a circle at the center, and three lines lead down beneath it. One line ends in Kristoph's name, and Phoenix had enjoyed scratching a large X over it, though that left only two other legs.

(Kristoph played at being a decent person so well—too well—and Phoenix had been both repelled by and fascinated by the quick exchanges recorded forever in Klavier's Facebook history, the well-wishes and congratulations exchanged between brothers who may not have seen each other often but who clearly kept in close contact on-line.)

One little support leg leads to a balloon containing the Gavinners, with five even smaller legs coming off it. One of the smaller legs leads to Daryan Crescend, and Phoenix had swiftly scratched that name out. Over the course of the day he has placed lines through all the others names, too. One member transferred to Chicago following Daryan's arrest—guilty conscience, Phoenix wonders? One said he hasn't spoken to Klavier in three months, shrugging and saying they've both been busy. One said Klavier's name with a sneer, insinuating that the 'perfectionist diva' hadn't been able to handle the controversy over Kristoph's arrest and had screwed everyone in the band in the process. Klavier's agent had been even more up-front about her anger, saying the only way she would discuss Klavier Gavin was if Klavier called her saying that he was reforming the Gavinners.

Which leaves the last little leg of Phoenix's diagram, the one that goes to _coworkers_. There are over a dozen names listed beneath that, but over the course of the day Phoenix has slowly crossed them all off.

Not that Klavier's coworkers dislike him. Quite the opposite. The most common words Phoenix has heard used to describe Klavier over the course of the day are _nice_ and _friendly_. But it's clear none of them are people that Klavier really talks to about anything outside work—none are people that Klavier goes out with, that Klavier has taken into confidence about everything that's happened.

Drawing one fierce dark line through all the legs supporting Klavier's name, Phoenix circles it over and over again.

 _Nice_ and _friendly_ and all alone.

Dedicated to justice and used to further corruption, to usher in the Dark Age of the Law.

Klavier probably hadn't noticed how few people he had to rely on until Phoenix and Apollo systematically took them away from him. He has eight million friends on Facebook, after all. He's a genius prosecutor and a beautiful rock star. His career was going brilliantly and he thought he was doing only good and he couldn't put pen to paper without turning out another platinum hit.

And then Kristoph went to jail for murder.

Daryan went to jail for murder and smuggling.

Phoenix was found to be innocent of wrong-doing, one of Klavier's first big cases shown to be one giant ball of lies and manipulation.

Was Klavier _trying_ to hurt himself, breaking up the Gavinners right after that? Or was he really just trying to bring his focus to bear where he thought it needed to be, on the legal system that had just taken so many strong blows?

Phoenix's pen breaks through the paper with a crunching sound, tearing Klavier's name in half.

The results had been the same, either way.

"There's plenty of people right now who _will_ help him, though." Phoenix mutters the words to himself, smoothing out the paper, putting the pieces of Klavier's name back together again. "Plenty who are trying to reach out to him, but he won't reach _back_."

Turning to a blank sheet of paper, Phoenix writes Klavier's name again, neat and clean and _whole_ in the center. He writes Trucy's above it, Ema's to one side, Miles' to the other. Apollo and Athena he places below.

Missing fathers, brothers, sisters; used for blackmail, for corruption, for expediency; there are _so many things_ they have in common, besides a fundamental drive for justice and truth. How does he connect them all?

"Hey, Miles?" Phoenix doesn't look up from his new half-finished diagram. "When you... what convinced you to get help? To come back?"

Miles sits back in his chair. His eyes fall away from Phoenix's, arms crossing. "I reached a point where I had only two choices. Finish it, or find a way to keep going. Die, or live. I chose living. Part of that was finding, as my therapist was _overly_ fond of saying, healthier coping mechanisms."

"Oh." It shouldn't still hurt, knowing how deeply Edgeworth was damaged by all that happened to him. It shouldn't still make Phoenix's chest ache, but it always does. Taking a breath, Phoenix shakes himself, trying to focus on the important information. "So you ended up seeing a therapist that was helpful?"

"It can be very helpful, if you want to be there. If you want to change your thought patterns and behaviors and coping mechanisms." Edgeworth looks further away, hugging his arm. "Once you admit that something's wrong, that something has to change... there are lots of options."

Phoenix nods, turning back to the first sheet, the one with Klavier's torn name. Ema's text stares up at him. _Won't talk to me about it._ And what was it that Miles had said yesterday? _He didn't seem interested in talking_.

The shape of a plan begins to form in Phoenix's mind. He's not sure if it's a _good_ plan—is fairly certain that there are many people who would tell him it _isn't—_ but if being nice to Klavier is just resulting in him politely and _nicely_ stonewalling those who are trying to reach out to him...

"Does Klavier have the weekend off?"

Edgeworth looks up again, expression quietly wary. "In theory. He had an arrest made this afternoon, but it seems like it should be a quick trial. I'd be surprised if it goes more than a day."

"Besides which you can just give him the time off, being chief prosecutor and all." Phoenix returns to Klavier's facebook page, scrolling back through the history until he finds, ages and trials ago, the last synopsis of a defense attorney that Klavier did. Apollo's synopsis. A synopsis from after the Kitaki case that is both very accurate and very _approving_ of Apollo. "Right?"

"I can't _force_ him to take the time off if he doesn't want to..." Edgeworth stares at Phoenix through narrowed eyes. "But I can definitely _suggest_ it. Just what are you planning, Wright?"

Phoenix connects Apollo's name to Athena's and Trucy's, Athena's to Trucy's and Miles', Ema's to Trucy's and Apollo's and Miles', forming a net that completely surrounds Klavier Gavin. Then he draws a dotted line from Klavier down to Apollo. A small support, a small foothold, but far better than nothing. "I'm going to make him _choose_ , and I'm going to trust that he'll choose the same thing you did."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"What are you doing this weekend?"

Apollo freezes in the doorway to the Wright Anything Agency, surprised by the voice that calls out to him. It's rare that Phoenix Wright beats him into the office, unless there's some case that Phoenix is focusing on. "Uh... tomorrow or Sunday?"

"Tomorrow." Phoenix has a notebook in front of him, and Apollo can't tell if he is scrawling information into it or doodling along the edges. He's wearing his suit, though, the ensemble making him look sharp and professional, every inch an older version of the man that Apollo grew up respecting and wanting to emulate.

Because he _is_ the man that Apollo thought he was, though he is also frequently frustrating, occasionally cagey, and not to be trusted unless it's clear where truth and justice lie. "I'm going out with a friend. We're going to the new amusement park, the one with the roller coasters. Why?"

"No reason." Phoenix _definitely_ jots something down in his notebook, though. "Who's the friend you're going with?"

"Clay Terran. I've mentioned him before. He's the astronaut." Clearing a collection of different-colored handkerchiefs off one of the couch cushions, Apollo settles down facing his boss. "Why do you need to know that, too?"

"You're being so suspicious, Apollo!" Phoenix is very good at making an aggrieved expression. Sometimes it's because he's actually upset; more often, and Apollo suspects that's the case this time, it's because he's trying to play Apollo like a fiddle and Apollo is getting too good at dodging. "Isn't it normal for coworkers to ask each other about their weekend plans?"

"I suppose." Apollo continues to study his boss with what he does have to admit is suspicion. "You know, if you want me to take Trucy, you can just ask. I doubt Clay would have much of a problem with it."

Phoenix shakes his head. "No, Trucy and Athena are going to stay with Jinxie in Nine-Tails Vale for the weekend. It'll be good for all three of them."

Apollo spares a moment to wonder how Athena got roped into Trucy-watching duty for the weekend, another moment to hope no new murders crop up in Nine-Tails Vale because they're daring to try to have some fun, and a third moment to agree with Phoenix that, assuming there are no murders, the break will be good for all of them. "You're really just interested in what I'm going to do for the weekend?"

"I'm always concerned about how you're doing, Apollo. You know that, right?" There's an earnest intensity to Phoenix's eyes as he lifts them from his notebook.

Apollo finds his right hand rubbing at his bracelet, which still hangs loose around his wrist. They don't lie to each other often in the Wright Anything Agency, because they _can't_ and because they don't want to. They will dance around a truth, sometimes, avoid asking too-direct questions, and certain members are very good at giving indirect or misleading answers—Apollo glances up at Phoenix from the corner of his eye. Sometimes, though, it is nice to be able to state a bald truth in the certain knowledge that the other person will _know_ it for truth. "I know, Mr. Wright. I appreciate it."

"And you can come to me any time, if you ever need anything or if you ever just want to talk." Phoenix's mouth turns down in a faint bitter frown. "Heaven knows we've all been through enough to warrant a breakdown or two."

"Yeah..." Thinking back on the last eighteen months, Apollo marvels at how quickly things have changed for him... and at how little he would alter, if give the opportunity. "I'm doing just fine though, Mr. Wright. I'm pretty happy with where my life is right now."

There is more he considers saying—how much he likes having Athena at the Agency, how much he loves Trucy even when she can be infuriating, how much he respects Phoenix when Phoenix isn't busy pulling his strings and intentionally annoying him. His face turns hot at the thought of actually saying any of it, though. Sometimes the best way to say complex truths is with just a simple statement.

"I'm really glad to hear that." Another truth, a flash of an earnest smile that Apollo remembers seeing in the papers when he was younger—a smile he's seen more often over the last months, as Phoenix's reputation is slowly salvaged, a smile he likes more than the faintly bitter one he saw so much of before. Then Phoenix glances back down at his notebook. "Tell me again what Clay's like?"

"Uh..." Apollo hesitates, suspicion rising again. He _does_ want to introduce Clay to the rest of his friends, though, and it isn't like asking about a friend's friend is _that_ strange. "He's a pretty easy-going guy. Smart. Kind. Driven when it comes to his work. Compassionate when it comes to his friends. Loves space—as in outer space, cosmic type stuff."

It's a very poor description of Clay, but Apollo finds that words are failing him. How do you condense someone who has been a friend for years down into a few sentences, so that someone else can understand?

"Hmm." Phoenix frowns, making some more notes in his book, and Apollo cranes his head up, trying to get a higher angle so that he can see what's being written. Phoenix reaches for a glass of water at the same moment, obscuring Apollo's sight. "Any interest in the legal system?"

"About as much interest in the legal system as I have in space." Apollo shrugs. "We follow each other's careers, listen when the other has... difficulties. But he's not a good candidate for the Agency, if that's what you're driving at."

Phoenix laughs, a quiet chuckle, and smiles his open, honest smile again. "I think I've got my hands full watching over the two of you and Trucy. I would like to meet him some time, though. Maybe in the near future..."

Apollo grins, though he manages to school the expression down to a more neutral smile after a second. "I'd really like that."

"Good." Phoenix nods as though something has been decided, snapping his notebook closed. He half-stands, then settles back down, glancing up at Apollo again. "By the way, what's your impression of Klavier Gavin?"

"Huh?" Apollo frowns, at a loss as to how the conversation has taken this turn. He's used to that feeling when talking to Phoenix Wright, though. "What do you mean?"

"What I asked." Phoenix shrugs, and the small, slightly bitter smile that Apollo first came to know so well returns. "What are your impressions of Prosecutor Gavin?"

"Uh..." This feels like a trick question. Apollo narrows his eyes, studying his boss for a few seconds, but Phoenix's expression doesn't change. "I think he's a terrible musician, a frighteningly good prosecutor, and overall a pretty decent guy."

Phoenix laughs again, his easy, honest smile returning. "Blunt and to the point as always. Not a bad synopsis, either. Not quite _a voice like thunder_ , _a mien as expressive as a symphony_ , and _a heart and soul dedicated to truth and justice_ , but it'll do."

Apollo stares at his boss. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I was just curious, that's all." Phoenix shrugs, jotting down a few more notes in his book. "Now that you've gotten to meet a few other prosecutors, I was wondering if it changed your opinion of him."

"Not really." Apollo rubs at the back of his head. "Though I've gotta say I like facing Klavier more than the Twisted Samurai. That guy's a trip and a half. Why would the Prosecutor's Office even let him _do_ what he's doing?"

Phoenix smiles, enigmatic and unreadable. "I'm sure they have their reasons. And I really hope that you enjoy yourself this weekend. All of you."

"Right." Apollo shakes his head. He's pretty sure that Phoenix has something planned now, though he's absolutely no closer to figuring out what. "Did you have anything you needed me to do, Mr. Wright, or—"

Wrong question. Apollo knows that as soon as he asks it, as Phoenix's eyes brighten and his smile widens into something that Apollo thinks can properly be described as 'wolfish'.

By the end of the day Apollo has almost forgotten that he's suspicious of Phoenix's plans for him this weekend.

Almost, but not quite.

XXX

 _Plea bargain._

They are Klavier's least favorite words. They always have been, from the time he was first studying law with Constance Courte through his studying in Germany and into his career. They have a certain taste to them, no matter what language he is using, a bitter, cloying taste that seems to stick to his tongue for hours or even days.

There is a certain failure inherent in the words. He knows _why_ plea bargains are used—better to save tax money than waste it on a trial where the verdict is obvious, better to use small criminals to take down larger ones. More efficient, more practical, but it still feels like he is losing his victory. Like all the work he did, all the work his team did to find evidence for a guilty verdict has been for nought, because he's going to bargain away a portion of the accused's sentence.

Which means he has to _decide_ what is a fair trade, what is a fair sentence. He has to weigh the weight of the ghost lingering in the crime scene photos and autopsy report against the information he is being given and the time that is being saved and decide what is fair, what is just, when there is a part of him that hates the very concept he is using.

Not that it is _entirely_ his decision. Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth has to sign off on any deal that he strikes.

Meaning Klavier will have to go speak with Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth.

Klavier should have recognized the name faster than he did. He should have been able to put together all the different tales into one coherent timeline of a busy, varied, _important_ life. A life spent dedicated to pursuing justice, in multiple countries, with multiple agencies, but always returning here, to the city where his father fought and died chasing truth.

A man who was saved, a decade ago, by Phoenix Wright.

It hadn't even been three years since the final culmination of the DL-6 incident when Klavier took away Phoenix's badge. What must Miles Edgeworth have thought, watching the man who saved him—who helped save the justice system, who revealed some of the festering darkness hiding at its heart—suffer under false charges?

What must he think now, seeing the man who caused it all?

Klavier's stomach clenches, and he doubles up as sharp pain stabs through his middle. He hasn't eaten since sometime yesterday, when the general feeling of nausea that has dogged him for days first changed into pain. Not that he's had much chance to. Between questioning his suspect and drafting a plea bargain deal, he has been kept quite busy.

Running his eyes over the final bargain, Klavier steels himself and pushes his way to his feet. He will present his draft to Prosecutor Edgeworth, and see what the Chief Prosecutor thinks of his work.

It's not like he's _entirely_ to blame for Phoenix Wright's disbarment, after all. Kristoph was the one pulling everyone's strings behind the scenes. Klavier's guilt lies in failing to examine the details of the case, though he knew, even back when it happened, that something was slightly off.

(Turning a blind eye to the darkness in his brother, to the darkness in the system he serves, to his own faults and failings, but now there is no hiding.)

Klavier slouches against the wall of the elevator as he takes it up to the Chief Prosecutor's office, studying his reflection in the mirrored surface. He looks... tired. His hair is trying to escape from his braid, and the collars of both his shirt and his jacket are rumpled and sitting untidily.

Forcing his back to straighten, Klavier quickly undoes and redoes his braid, does his best to smooth out his clothes so that it doesn't look like he fell asleep at his desk. (It was just for an hour, and his dreams were nightmares, and he has done his job he is doing fine he is worth the pain of the past.)

He stands straighter than he usually does, walking into Edgeworth's office. Trying to be calm and cool and collected, every inch the worthy colleague, and—

" _Gavin?_ "

So simple, that voice raised in angry disbelief on _his_ surname, and he is flinching back, he is trying not to retch as pain stabs through his gut again, and maybe he can't do this.

Maybe he can't make up for anything.

Maybe it would be better if he stopped trying.

"Klavier." Miles Edgeworth is standing in front of him, a deep frown etched into his face. "What's going on?"

He doesn't know. He doesn't know what he's done (recently) to make this man glare at him like that. Unless this has always been what Miles Edgeworth thought of him, and he was just too blind to notice (as he has been blind to so much else)? Raising his right hand, forcing it not to shake, wiping at his inexplicably sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his jacket as surreptitiously as he can, Klavier offers his boss the work he has spent the last several hours on. "Plea bargain. For my case..."

Edgeworth frowns down at the file, then back at Klavier, expression still dark and stormy.

Klavier drops his eyes to the floor, to his feet. Was he completely wrong in his reading of the situation? Did he miss some reason a plea bargain should be impossible? (He can't think of one, but that doesn't mean anything, doesn't matter what he can and cannot see, the truth will elude him anyway.) "We don't have to use it, of course. Don't have to bargain. I will be happy to stand in court tomorrow, if that's what you'd prefer. I just thought... it seemed useful information."

"It is." Edgeworth snaps the file closed. "I'll sign off, have the judge sign off, and we'll let narcotics know as soon as everything's finalized. This is good work, Klavier."

Then why is Edgeworth still frowning at him as though he's a stain on the rug? Why is Edgeworth—everyone, really, from Ema up to his boss—being so familiar with him lately? Klavier licks lips that feel dry and hot... though everything has felt dry and hot the last few hours, when it hasn't felt too cold. "Thank you, Herr Katze."

A glimmer of an emotion that Klavier can't name flashes across the Chief Prosecutor's face (though it looks like relief, and Klavier cannot explain why Edgeworth would look at him with _relief_ ). Turning back to his desk, Edgeworth settles down into his seat, file flicked open in front of him. When he speaks, it's in German. "Thank _you_ , Prosecutor G—Klavier. Tell me, what with getting this together, did you make it home last night?"

Klavier considers lying, then decides there's no point in it. Long nights and overnight stays are unusual but certainly not unheard of, especially in the more dedicated prosecutors or when a lot of cases hit at once. He answers Edgeworth in the language that Edgeworth chose. "No. Caught a little bit of sleep in my office, but not much."

Edgeworth nods, giving a small, commiserating smile. "I understand how that goes. Why don't you go home early, try to catch up now?"

(He doesn't want to sleep he will see Kristoph's dead face asking him if this is what he wants, blue lips moving in a parody of Klavier's own smile, though Kristoph likely won't hang for years, and he is too _tired_ to sleep.) Shaking his head, Klavier tries to smile, though he isn't sure how successful he is anymore. "I still have a great deal to do to finish this. Once you sign off, I have to take it to the judge, then have the suspect sign, record the confession, bring narcotics in—"

"Gavin, you look just about ready to collapse." Annoyed frustration tilts the corners of Edgeworth's mouth down, and he slides back into English as he glares at Klavier.

Klavier shakes his head, smile faltering. His left hand rises, runs along his braid, feels where tendrils are snaking out again. Smooths the collar of his jacket, adjusts the chain of his necklace, and it suddenly feels like a heavy weight sitting on his chest. Burning. Branding. "I am fine. I can do my job."

"Can you?" The question is blunt, Edgeworth's eyes boring into him more fiercely. "This—" Edgeworth gestures at the file Klavier presented to him. "—looks good, but if you made a mistake that I don't catch, we could lose a great deal. You have to be at your best, and you are not at your best right now."

Klavier closes his eyes, letting the words echo over and over again inside his skull. Pain throbs through his gut, and he draws a slow, shallow breath as he inclines his head. "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be _sorry_ , you need to be taking care of yourself." Edgeworth taps the file. "You need to figure out what you need and do whatever it takes to get it. You have a good three weeks of vacation time saved up—impressive, given your touring with the Gavinners tended to take some each time. Use some of it. Sleep. Eat. Do whatever you need to stop looking so..."

Klavier doesn't hear what Edgeworth actually says, his own mind filling in the gap. Don't look so useless. Don't look so pathetic. Don't look so tired. He is a reflection of the entire prosecutor's office, after all, an embodiment of justice.

Except that both of them standing here in this room know that he isn't.

Opening his eyes, he studies Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth. "You've no more work for me, then?"

"Klavier—"

"I understand. It's all right." He smiles, though it seems to tug at his mouth in odd ways, to not quite fit right. "I have been thinking anyway that it may be time to make a change. I will have my formal letter of resignation on your desk by the evening. Though I do request that you consider raising Ms. Skye's salary when it comes time for her next review—she has performed quite admirably over the last three months."

Quitting only makes sense, after all. He is not able to perform his duties appropriately anymore. He cannot fight in court without wondering if he has chosen improperly. He cannot investigate crime scenes. He cannot even do basic paperwork without giving himself a pep talk first. If he cannot do his job, best that he quit, remove himself from a place where his presence can only bring strife and his (frequent) mistakes take away what faith peope have in the system.

"Gavin, _shut up_." Edgeworth is on his feet, his hands clenched into fists and leaning on his desk. "I _do not want_ and _will not accept_ your resignation right now. All right? I want you to go _sleep_. _Schlafen_. I _don't_ want you doing anything rash."

"Oh." It's a silly response, but it's all Klavier seems able to say, and he finds himself swaying slightly on his feet. "You... don't want my resignation?"

"No." Edgeworth's expression softens. "I don't know what I may have done to give you that impression, but I don't. Just let me take care of the rest of this case. I was going to meet with His Honor in a half hour, anyway. You go sleep. Take the weekend off. And I'll see you on Monday, when you're feeling better. If you're still considering quitting, I'll discuss it with you then."

He could fight. Maybe he should fight.

But he is tired of fighting. Tired of being wrong. Tired of disappointing others and himself. If Edgeworth wants to keep him employed for a bit longer—to keep an eye on him? To give him jobs that no one else wants? To ensure there are no other surprises lurking in his past?—then he will accept it.

"Monday, Klavier Gavin, you're going to be in here wishing me _guten morgen_." Miles' eyes narrow. "Promise me?"

There's a slight catch to Edgeworth's voice, a hesitancy that Klavier has never heard before. "I promise."

"All right." Miles settles back into his chair, though he is still watching Klavier with wary, nervous eyes. "Go home, Gavin. Sleep."

They're short, simple commands from someone he is used to obeying, and Klavier's body instinctively responds, turning him and propelling him towards the door.

Today or Monday, it doesn't really matter when he quits. Now that the thought has entered his mind, it seems only reasonable, _logical_ , the next inevitable part of the breakdown of everything he has loved and worked towards in his life. Why rush the inevitable?

(Why hang Kristoph tomorrow when they can give him weeks, months, _years_ to linger, and Klavier will visit him every week, because they are brothers and he owes Kristoph that much, to not be alone while Death hangs over him?)

Klavier almost trips over the note, though it is a single piece of paper, folded carefully and shoved under his door.

Opening it, he stares at the simple typed message before throwing his head back and laughing.

Why not?

It's as good a way to waste the weekend as any other.

(If the universe is kind, then whoever wrote the note will put a gun to Klavier's head and pull the trigger tomorrow, ending this for all of them.)

Folding the note carefully in half and then in half again, Klavier slips it into his pocket, grabs the keys to his bike, and heads for home, as Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth told him to do.

XXX

"You're going to break him."

"Reality did that; _we're_ trying to put him back together."

"He looks like he's about five minutes from death's door and he's trying to _quit_."

"You didn't let him, right? You _can_ stop him for at least two weeks."

"Wright—"

"But I don't need two weeks, just one day. Hang on one more day, Klavier."

"And then you'll push him over the edge?"

"And then I'll make him choose, and be there to catch him whatever choice he makes."

XXX

Klavier doesn't sleep well.

Not that he expected to. He's not sure he can remember the last time he _really_ slept well, without some kind of nightmare or interrupted, stacatto pattern to his rest.

He feels even more terrible than he did the day before, if that's possible. His face feels flushed, the skin taut and sweaty, though in the mirror he looks pale under his golden complexion. At least his complexion helps to hide the paleness, so that from a distance, with his hair very carefully braided before being shoved up under a baseball cap, he looks relatively normal.

He doesn't wear his usual ensemble. Amusement parks are the kind of place his fans would like to congregate, and he doesn't want to meet any like this (doesn't think he could _handle_ any Gavinners fans right now). Black jeans, a black leather jacket and a pale tan sleeveless shirt look good on him, though, and will fit well enough with both the bike and the boots so as not to draw attention.

Smoothing out the note on his bedside table, Klavier studies it again.

 _If you want to find the truth_...

Such a dramatic opening line. Given that the rest of the letter is succinct instructions telling him where to go and when, he finds it curious. Running the fingers of his right hand along the words, he wonders who wrote them, and what truth it is that they want him to find.

He supposes he will know soon enough.

Riding his motorcycle is an exercise in pain, every rumble and bump transmitting itself into his abdomen as bursts of fiery agony, but he does it anyway. He is careful, though, making sure that despite the pain he poses no danger to anyone else on the road. He promised Ema, after all, and he tries very hard not to break his promises.

The first text message arrives at eleven on the dot, and Klavier finds that he isn't surprised. Why else would the note have insisted he bring his phone except that the mystery author intended to use it to contact him? Klavier pays for a ticket and enters the amusement park, taking a moment to breathe in the smell and soak in the noise of several thousand people enjoying themselves. It is strangely comforting, in a way—both being ignored, a roadblock to be veered around if he is anything at all, and hearing the sounds of joy and camaraderie that fill the park.

Even if justice is broken, even if faith in the system has been eroded away, even if he has made a mess out of his _own_ life, there is still laughter and love in the world.

His phone chimes again, a series of tinkling bells rather than the usual riffs from _Guilty Love_. Was it last week that he changed it or the week before? He can't remember, and it doesn't matter.

 _Go east eight hundred feet._

Still at a loss as to who or what may be behind the texts, Klavier follows the instructions, anyway.

Except when he has gone eight hundred feet east, another message comes, telling him to move south a thousand feet.

Then west.

Then north.

He spends the next hour running in circles, following instructions that seem to lead him nowhere. He doesn't particularly mind, though. It's not like he intends to ride any of the rides—he's actually fairly certain that would be a terrible idea, the sharp pain deciding that now it will alternate with the nausea rather than replacing it in his gut.

Licking at dry lips with a drier tongue, Klavier glances from the latest text to the nearest refreshment stand. Hopefully it won't annoy his mysterious friend too much if Klavier takes a short break to purchase water. After all, it won't be much fun to order him about if—

"Hey, watch out!"

Klavier freezes, blinking, his skin turning first cold and then hot as he recognizes the voice but also knows that it doesn't _belong_ here.

"Geez, buddy, be careful, you almost ended up—" Apollo Justice trails off.

 _His voice actually fits in this context_ , Klavier thinks but doesn't say as he stares down at the younger man. With the competition of a hundred other voices, it's nice to be able to hear Apollo so clearly and cleanly, without having to strain.

Or would be nice, if he was supposed to be listening to Apollo. But Justice is not supposed to be here. Justice is someone who exists at crime scenes and in the courtroom, not _here_ , not holding a tray with two hot dogs, two little cups of fries, and two drinks.

"Prosecutor Gavin?" At least Apollo seems as surprised and borderline-dismayed to see him as he is to see Apollo. "Are you... oh, geez, are you okay?"

Klavier blinks. "I am fine."

Justice frowns, glancing down at the bracelet on his left wrist before looking back at Klavier with an even deeper frown.

Hunching his shoulders, hands in his pockets, Klavier looks away. "Sorry about almost running into you."

"Apollo?" A black-haired young man in some kind of blue uniform jacket appears at Apollo's side, studying Klavier with open curiosity. "Everything all right?"

"Everything's fine, Clay." Apollo shifts the tray he's carrying. "Uh... this is Prosecutor Klavier Gavin, a... someone I know from work. Gavin, this is my really good friend Clay Terran."

 _Really good friend_. Klavier finds himself smiling at the way Apollo says the words, something like wistful desire twining through the fiery pain in his stomach. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Terran. Justice has been a fine opponent in court."

"Yeah?" Apollo looks quite pleased, a small, satisfied grin flitting across his face. "We both do pretty good, I'd say. Though we haven't gotten to face off against each other in, what, six weeks now?"

"Yes." Six weeks during which Klavier found himself wondering if he could trust the person standing across from him, and he had been looking forward to facing Apollo over the Nine-Tails Vale incident before Edgeworth gave it to Blackquill.

(Because a convicted murderer is more trustworthy than him?)

"...Prosecutor Gavin?" Apollo stares up at him, eyes wide.

"Sorry." Klavier smiles at Justice, glad he ran into the man at least one more time. After all, if he quits (before he can be fired, before he proves his uselessness) this may be the last time he gets to see Apollo Justice. "I will not take up any more of your time. You are enjoying yourselves; I will leave you to it."

"We're just grabbing a bite to eat before we get back to the rides." Clay glances at Apollo. "I would think, if you wanted to join us, Mr. Gavin...?"

"Yeah, you're welcome to sit and eat with us." Apollo is still watching him with those too-wide eyes, his mouth turning down in a frown.

Klavier hesitates, and while he does his cell phone chimes again.

 _Ask him for the truth about you._

Staring down at the text, Klavier tries to make sense of it. What is he supposed to ask Apollo?

"Are you here on a case, Prosecutor G... Klavier?" Apollo and Clay have somehow ended up on either side of him, are steering him slowly but determinedly toward one of the small tables placed close to each other in front of the refreshment stand.

"No." Klavier shakes his head. "Prosecutor Edgeworth doesn't want to give me any cases."

Apollo frowns, setting down the tray that clearly contains lunch for him and Clay. "That seems weird. Maybe there just aren't any cases? But if you're not here on a case—"

" _Oh, God, it really is him!_ "

"I _knew_ it, I knew it, it's _Gavin!_ "

"Gavin!"

"Gavin!"

" _Gavinners!_ "

The excited shouts, pitched like whispers but carrying like spears, spread outward from a group of teenagers at the other end of the refreshment plaza. Klavier flicks his gaze across the already-gathering crowd, the sound of their cheerful chanting beating on his ears like ocean waves against a disintegrating sand castle.

His stomach clenches, pain flaring red-hot through his abdomen, and Klavier's body reacts even as his mind stops working entirely.

What does one more failure matter, anyway?


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Apollo's eyes flick frantically from the steadily-growing crowd that is bearing down on them to Prosecutor Klavier Gavin, currently curled in a ball on the ground, his hands pressed to his ears, his breath hitching in something that is suspiciously like a sob.

Clay reacts faster than Apollo does, possibly because he doesn't _know_ Klavier, hasn't seen Klavier handle far worse things than a hoard of screaming fans. Before Apollo has even decided that they need to _do_ something Clay has his shoulder under Klavier's right arm and has hauled the taller man to his feet.

Falling in on Klavier's left side, Apollo takes half of what is practically Klavier's dead weight.

The crowd is twenty paces away from them; the men's bathroom is only ten, and they reach it with time to spare, especially since the crowd seems to hesitate when they see Klavier's reaction.

Clay releases Klavier as soon as they're inside the bathroom, and Apollo helps gently settle the taller man to the floor as Clay locks the bathroom door and closes the windows.

Thankfully there doesn't seem to be anyone else in the bathroom. Just him, Clay, and a violently shivering Klavier, curled against the wall.

Clay comes to stand at Apollo's left hand, looking between Apollo and Klavier, clearly waiting for Apollo to tell him what to do. Which is all well and good, but Apollo has _no idea_ what's going on. He has no idea why Klavier looks like hell and feels like he's running a temperature and is having some kind of panic attack about being recognized by his fans and—

"Sorry." Klavier's teeth are chattering, and he runs a shaking hand over his pale blond braid. Sometime in his collapse or their run his hat has fallen off, and pale strands are sticking up every which way. " _Entschuldigung._ Sorry. _Ich bitte Sie un—_ "

"Klavier." Kneeling down so that he's face-to-face with the prosecutor, trying not to notice the state of the floor, Apollo reaches out and gingerly touches Klavier's knee. "It's all right. It's fine. You haven't done anything you need to apologize for."

Klavier stares at him, blue eyes wide, face pale except for where a hot flush burns high on both cheeks. Then he laughs, a low, dark, awful sound that raises the hairs on Apollo's neck. "That, Herr Justice, is perhaps the largest lie I have ever heard anyone tell."

"No, it's not." Apollo's fingers tighten, latching onto Klavier, as though the feel of his touch through fabric could fix whatever is terribly wrong in Klavier's perceptions. Because something is wrong, Apollo's bracelet not tightening even a little as Klavier takes the blame for... for what? Glancing up at Clay, Apollo makes a quick decision. "Hey, Clay, do you think you could face the masses and get some water for Klavier? Maybe try to convince them he's not who they think he is?"

Clay looks from Klavier to Apollo and nods slowly. "If you think you'll be all right on your own for a bit, I might be able to do even better. Mr. Starbuck said he wasn't doing anything this weekend, and if I ask him to come be a distraction..."

"That's a great idea!" Apollo grins up at his friend. "Between the movie and the launch later this year... Clay, sometimes you're brilliant."

"I have my moments." Clay grins, then sobers as his gaze flicks to Klavier again. "Lock the door after I slip out. I'll be back with water before too long, and I'll let you know when it's safe to sneak out."

Apollo nods, standing and moving to the door to help Clay exit.

When he turns back to Klavier, the rock star has buried his head in his arms, which are resting on his knees.

Letting out a deep sigh, Apollo slides down the wall next to Klavier. "Hi."

Klavier turns his head so that he's facing Apollo, a small, bitter smile on his face that reminds Apollo frighteningly of the smile Phoenix wore when they first met. "Hi. Sorry."

"No sorry." Apollo shakes his head. "Just tell me what happened out there."

Klavier hesitates, then draws a deep breath that becomes a grimace of pain partway through. "I... cannot face them. I am not the man that they think I am."

Apollo can feel both his eyebrows rise. "Sure you are."

"No, Justice, I am not." Shaking his head, Klavier hugs his knees tighter to his chest.

Still no tightening of his bracelet, no hint that Klavier is saying anything but the pure truth, and Apollo finds himself rubbing at his left wrist. "All right. How do you think you're a disappointment?"

Klavier shivers. "Where would you like me to start?"

"Wherever you want." Shrugging, Apollo makes sure to keep his eyes on Klavier so that he can catch any reactions that are off. "They want to see a rock-star musician and a brilliant prosecutor. Where are they wrong?"

"I am not a musician anymore, Herr Justice." Klavier closes his eyes. "I have been focusing on my work—my actual work, which does good for the world. Which will maybe make up my debt."

Apollo frowns. What debt is Klavier talking about?

"I haven't been practicing. I haven't been writing." A minor twinge of the bracelet around Apollo's wrist. "I've disbanded the Gavinners, and I'm holding to that. I don't want to bring them back, anyway."

A stronger squeeze of the bracelet on his arm, and Apollo rubs at his wrist. "You know, Klavier, one of the reasons I really like working with you is that you don't lie to me."

Klavier turns his head away, his shivering becoming more pronounced.

All right, pushing is apparently really not the way to go right now. "Unless... maybe you're lying to yourself, too? Because I think you have been doing at least a bit of writing, and you would like to bring the Gavinners back."

Klavier shakes his head, left hand pressing against his head as though it hurts. "I haven't been writing. Thinking about it, sometimes. Can't help thinking about it. Everything always used to be part of a song in the making. But words don't come together right, and I can't sing them even if I wanted to, and the Gavinners are just a silly little pretentious group that doesn't do anything."

Apollo frowns at Klavier, not liking the cadence of Klavier's words, not liking the way he looks. "First off, the Gavinners made a lot of people happy. I don't particularly like your brand of music, but I know it makes a lot of other people happy. If you don't want to sing or write or can't because of... everything, that's fine, but don't give up on the whole project because you think it's not as... as important as prosecuting. Or is Trucy's calling as a magician just a silly game?"

"No." Klavier speaks slowly, clearly considering each word. "I've seen how happy she can make people. But it's... different."

"Why?" Apollo tries to ask the question gently, which, given his usual volume, isn't particularly easy. He winces as an echo bounces off the far concrete wall.

"Because she didn't help break everything." Klavier's eyes are fever-bright. "You're her best friend, Apollo, and you're fantastic. And she wasn't used by her brother to help bring about the Dark Age of the Law."

No twinge from his bracelet, and Apollo tries not to flush at Klavier calling him fantastic. It's either the fever talking or Klavier's usual nonsense flirtations breaking through. "Klavier, listen to yourself. You think you're responsible for being used?"

"Yes." Klavier answers promptly. "Because I should have noticed. I should have checked. I should have thought, instead of just being happy because I had the Gavinners and I was doing good with my career and hrg."

Klavier makes an agonized noise, right hand pressed to the left side of his stomach, lips suddenly ghost-white.

"Klavier?" Apollo sits up straighter, reaching out to touch Klavier. Heat rolls off Klavier's shoulder, and Apollo raises his hand, fingers brushing against Klavier's cheek for a moment. Klavier leans into the touch, then seems to collect himself and leans away, eyes downcast. "Oh, man, do you know what you've got? You're running a fever of at least one oh one, maybe higher."

"I've got a fever?" Klavier lays the back of the fingers of his left hand against his own forehead. "Maybe that's why it's getting harder and harder to think."

"That's it, we're getting you to a doctor as soon as Clay gets back." Apollo tries to keep a lid on his rising panic. He's pretty certain it's not good any time you've got a fever high enough to make thinking difficult.

"If you want." Klavier's response is almost completely apathetic. "Doesn't matter much, though. Might make things easier if I..."

Another chill runs down Apollo's spine, and he reaches out to clutch Klavier's elbow. "If you what, Klavier?"

Klavier doesn't meet Apollo's gaze. "If I die. It'll make things easier."

No tightening of his bracelet, no indication of a lie, and Apollo grabs Klavier's face with his other hand, forces Klavier to look at him. "No."

"No?" Wonder and disbelief mix in equal measure in Klavier's voice as he returns Apollo's stare.

"No. Everything would not be easier if you were dead. Trucy would be upset. Ema would be upset—having to break in a new boss is tough work." Apollo hesitates. "...I... would be upset."

Klavier makes a considering sound in the back of his throat, and his breath is too-hot where it puffs against Apollo's skin. "Make it easier on Prosecutor Edgeworth. Easier on Phoenix Wright. Have to hate seeing me around. Have to hate me."

"No, they don't." Apollo just barely resists the urge to shake Klavier, mainly because he doesn't know what he will do if Klavier passes out on him. "Klavier, no one hates you. You're one of the least-hateable people I've met."

"Must not have met too many people yet." Klavier hums low in his throat, a song that Apollo doesn't recognize. "You can tell a man's worth by the company he keeps, right? Daryan. Kristoph. Me."

"You are _nothing_ like them."

"I am. Just look in the mirror and I can see, which means that everyone else can see just by looking at me." Klavier's right hand shifts, runs over his pale blond braid and then returns to pressing against his left side.

"Klavier..." Apollo tries to think of what to say, stumbles over any words, unsure what will help and what will hurt. "You didn't... you're not sick because of something you... did to yourself, right?"

"No." Klavier's startled expression says that he's telling the truth just as plainly as Apollo's quiescent bracelet. "I wouldn't do that. Unless... you think I should?"

"Hell no. I'm worried about you, Gavin. Why would I _want_ you to hurt yourself?"

"Because..." Klavier frowns, blue eyes going unfocused as he clearly works on articulating what his reasoning and emotions are. Is this the first time he's tried to find words for what he's feeling? "I... deserve it? To hurt. For all the hurt I've caused."

"I don't believe that, and I don't think that you really do, either." Holding Klavier's shoulder tighter, Apollo tries to impress his belief into the other man. "You're a good man, Klavier Gavin. And right now you're tired and you're sick, and that makes everything a thousand times harder, but we're going to get you feeling better. You deserve to feel better. You're going to be just fine."

Klavier nods, hesitantly. "So you don't think I should quit?"

Apollo's stomach lurches as he considers all the different things that _quit_ could mean. He decides to go with the interpretation that makes him the least panicked. "No. I'd miss you if you quit your job. You're sometimes a bit of a bastard in court—you really know how to play to the gallery and the judge—"

"It's part of our job. Put on a show." The smile that had blossomed on Klavier's face slowly fades. "Justice as performance art, and we all just accept it..."

Giving Klavier's shoulder a little squeeze, Apollo shakes his head in vigorous denial. "It's not. Not for us and not for you and not for Prosecutor Edgeworth and not for any of the other decent people working in the system. I trust you, Klavier. I trust that if you're gunning for someone you really believe they did it. I trust you to change your theories to fit the evidence, not the evidence to fit your theories. Do you think I could trust that Twisted Samurai prosecutor to do the same?"

Klavier lowers his head so that his cheek is resting against Apollo's hand, skin burning fire-hot. "I haven't been sure. About anything. For months now."

"Yeah. From what you've been saying, it sounds like things have been... kind of rough." Apollo hesitates, then charges on. Given that Klavier Gavin was definitely dancing around the issue of suicide with him, he'd rather just state this than imply it. "Have you talked to someone about it? Someone professional? Someone who could help you?"

Klavier shakes his head, and Apollo can feel thread-thin wisps of stubble rubbing against his hand. "No."

"I think... I think maybe you should."

Klavier's body stills, and liquid blue eyes peer at Apollo. "They said to ask you what the truth is about me. Is that what you think the truth is? That I need help?"

"Everyone does." Apollo shrugs, face heating, but he refuses to look away. "If I hadn't had Clay to fall back on after everything with... with Kristoph... and then if I hadn't had Trucy and Mr. Wright... I would probably look about like you do right now. There's no shame in reaching out for help, Klavier."

Klavier's left hand rises, small tremors causing it to twitch as he holds it out towards Apollo. "And... it's all right to ask for help? Even if I've hurt the people I can reach out to?"

"It's always all right to ask for help, and if it's being offered, it's kind of a dick move to refuse it." Taking Klavier's hand, Apollo holds it tightly. "And yes, this is me offering it."

" _Apollo!_ "

Jerking to his feet, Apollo takes the handful of steps to the bathroom door and opens it a crack.

Clay stands just in front of the door, a glass of ice water in hand and a victorious grin on his face. "Mission successful! Crowd diverted. How's your rock star?"

Apollo narrows his eyes as he takes the drink from Clay. "He's not _my_ rock star, and he's really sick. Mind helping me take him to the hospital?"

"Of course not." Clay sobers immediately, sliding into the bathroom and allowing the door to close behind him.

Kneeling down at Klavier's side, Apollo holds the water up for him to take a sip. "Come on. It'll make you feel better."

Another shiver wracks Klavier's frame. "I... am not certain about that, but I will try."

Apollo waits in growing impatience as Klavier daintily takes a handful of sips before pushing the cup away. Handing the plastic cup back to Clay, Apollo kneels next to Klavier so that he can get his arm under Klavier's again. "All right, up you go. Now we'll get you to the doctor and figure out what's going on."

"Sounds..." Klavier gasps as he straightens, his right hand crossing his abdomen to press against his left side again. "Sounds... good. Thanks, Apollo. I..."

Whatever else Klavier's going to say is lost as the prosecutor stumbles away from Apollo's hold, grabs one of the sinks, and vomits up a mess of bright red blood.

Apollo and Clay grab Klavier before he can hit the floor, and Apollo finds himself shouting that Klavier's going to be _fine_ even as he desperately hopes that it's true.

XXX

"You really don't need to stay if you don't want to."

"I know." Apollo nods, arms crossed in front of his chest. "But you checked yourself out against medical advice, and the condition of us driving you home was that we got to stay here and make sure you don't die overnight, right?"

"I appreciate all that you have done, and you are certainly welcome, I just..." Klavier forces his fingers to stop picking at a thread on the blanket Apollo had tossed over him as soon as they arrived at Klavier's house. "I do not want you to feel obligated to stay."

Clay doesn't look up from his perusal of Klavier's guitar collection when he answers. "Oh, the horror, the abject misery involved in getting to see the inside of a rock star's house and poke at all his things."

"Prosecutor." Apollo rolls his eyes, even though Clay's back is turned. "It's a rich prosecutor's house, but I agree with Clay. You've got more DVDs in your back room than I knew existed, your television is about as big as one of the walls in my house, and like I said, I'm not leaving you alone until we're sure you're going to be all right."

Klavier swallows his first response, which is to say that Apollo will have to stay for a rather long time. He's fairly certain he's said enough embarassing things over the last eight hours; he really doesn't need to add to the tally. Instead he settles for a nod. "Thank you, Herr Forehead. It means a great deal to me, everything you have done today."

"You're welcome, Gavin." Apollo's stance relaxes, becoming less aggressive as he apparently decides that Klavier is unlikely to try to rise from the couch again over his protests. "Now, if you can manage to just _sit there_ for a few minutes like I asked, Clay and I are going to go see what we can make for dinner. Okay?"

" _Ja_ , okay." Klavier flashes a bright smile up at the lawyer, realizing only after it's already fading that it feels different from most of his smiles lately. Honest. Real. "I will wait with bated breath to see what wonders you conceive of."

This time it is clearly Klavier that the eye roll is aimed at as Apollo strides towards the hallway that will take him deeper into Klavier's sprawling house. Clay falls in at Apollo's side, having pulled himself away from the musical instruments with obvious reluctance. Klavier can hear him mutter, "Herr Forehead?"

"Don't ask." Apollo's reply is in what he probably thinks is a whisper, but Klavier can hear it clearly. "And don't you dare start using it, either. He's the only one I will put up with that from."

"As you like, pollywog..."

Then the two have moved beyond his hearing range, and Klavier is left alone on his own couch, staring across at the blank television screen.

His left hand moves automatically, touching gingerly at the bandage that covers where an IV catheter was shoved into his arm as soon as they arrived at the hospital. He doesn't remember much of the car ride there, though he has vague recollections of Apollo's fingers brushing his forehead, Apollo's voice chanting that he would be fine.

And he _is_ fine, in general. He certainly feels much better than he did when he had a hundred-and-four degree fever. The antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, and fluids that were shoved directly into his veins have done their job admirably, leaving him able to think clearly again.

Leaving him very aware that he pretty much had a nervous breakdown in front of a group of fans—though they will hopefully not be able to confirm that it was him, distracted by having another, even more auspicious hero suddenly appear in their midst.

The fact that his breakdown was also in front of Apollo Justice, well, that will be a little bit harder to deal with.

Though it has resulted in both Apollo and Clay making plans to stay with him for the night. How long has it been since he had friends spend the night? (Do tours where the Gavinners all crashed in the same hotel room count?)

 _This is me offering help._

Klavier's fingers close tight on thin air, and he can see the look of utter honesty and determination as Apollo reached out to take his hand.

 _There's no shame in needing help._

He's not sure if it's shame, exactly, that has kept him from reaching out. Though perhaps it is shame that is wrapped up in the fear that if he reaches out, he will be hurt again. If he tells someone how much everything has affected him, they will think him weak, helpless, useless.

 _Are you really blaming yourself for being_ used?

So angry and defensive on his behalf, and Klavier pulls the blanket up higher, until the soft purple fabric sits right under his chin. Will the others feel the same way that Apollo does? Is it possible that none of them—not Edgeworth, not Ema, not Wright—think there is anything he needs to atone for?

His blond hair reflects back at him from the television, and Klavier's hand shifts to touch it, slowly undoing the braid. There is one thing he thinks all of them would have trouble with, if he talked to them about it—one thing he didn't mention to Apollo when words danced fever-light off his tongue—but if he can even begin to put aside _some_ of the guilt...

"Whoa." Apollo stands frozen in the doorway, a tray in his hand on which is balanced a cup of tea and a bowl of soup. "Your hair—it's down."

Shaking it free, Klavier smiles at the surprised defense attorney. "Yes. I tend to take it down when I am not at work. Do you not?"

"Well, uh... I've just never seen you with it down." Apollo shrugs, crossing the distance from the doorway to Klavier as he talks. "It looks nice."

Accepting the tray that Apollo holds out to him, Klavier allows the blanket to fall down and pool in his lap. " _Danke vielmals_ , Herr Justice."

Apollo's eyes narrow suspiciously. "As long as you just fancied up the thank you, then you're welcome."

Klavier laughs, raising the tea cup to his lips and blowing on it. "It just means many thanks. Given that I have a great many things to thank you for, it seemed appropriate."

Apollo settles down on the couch on Klavier's right side. "It's not a problem. Really. Just let Clay loose in your video collection, and we'll be good."

"I am happy for either of you to look through whatever you like, and borrow whatever you'd like." Klavier looks down at the tea, dark brown against the white of the cup. "And if there's anything I can do for you, Justice, to make up for the trouble I've caused..."

"I wouldn't exactly say you caused it." Apollo shrugs. "I'm pretty sure you didn't want to have a bleeding ulcer that led to an infection."

"It was not at the top of my to-do list, no." Smiling again, glad to find the expression fitting, he raises the tea to his lips, takes a sip... and tries very hard not to gag as the taste floods his mouth.

"What?" Apollo is studying him with narrowed eyes, hair stalks seeming to droop toward him in suspicion.

"Oh, nothing." Klavier can see that his response isn't acceptable, Apollo glancing down at the bracelet on his left wrist and then glaring even more suspiciously at Klavier. (Strange, how often he looks at his wrist when he suspects falsehood—something Klavier will have to remember in the future.) "It just... tastes rather terrible."

"Well, you're not getting anything stronger." Apollo's frown deepens. "You heard the doctor. No soda, no coffee, no alcohol for the next two weeks, unless you want to have surgery to put your stomach back together after the ulcer ruptures or perforates or whatever the medical word is."

"Not particularly, no." Klavier tilts the faintly bitter-tasting brown-colored water around in the cup. "And it isn't the fact that it's tea that's bothering me, it's the fact that it's terrible-tasting tea."

"Well, it was tea from your cupboard." Apollo crosses his arms defensively.

"And how did you go about steeping it?" Klavier raises one eyebrow.

Apollo doesn't look away, at least, though his shoulders are drooping so much it makes even his hair seem to droop. "Microwaved a glass of water, put the tea bag in, and waited for it to turn colors."

Another laugh escapes him, though Klavier covers his mouth after a moment, his other hand carefully balancing the tray on his lap. "You know you are not supposed to microwave water for tea, ja?"

"Why not?" Apollo's shoulders rise, his tone bristling with a willingness to fight.

"Because you cannot control the temperature as well that way, and certain teas require very particular temperatures." Klavier tilts the tea first one way, then the other, watching the way the color shifts under the light. "Which one was this?"

"The one that was already in a tea bag." Muttering out the reply, Apollo crosses his arms in front of his chest. "I didn't want to play around with measuring out the loose-leaf stuff."

"I have pre-bagged teas in the cupboard?" Klavier tries to remember what he has, but tea isn't exactly his favorite drink. Coffee, alcohol, and soda, all of which are distinctly forbidden, tend to make up the mainstain of his liquid diet.

"Yeah."

"Ah. Well." Klavier carefully sets the cup aside. "If you will permit me to rise later, I will show you how to go about making a proper cup of tea."

"Good luck with that." Clay's quip comes from the hallway, and he enters the room a moment later with two small personal pizzas arranged on some of Klavier's more expensive tableware. One he sets on Apollo's lap; the other he begins tearing into as soon as he is settled on Klavier's left side.

Taking a sip of his soup, Klavier sighs in contentment. The antacids and sucralfate have done a remarkable job stopping the pain in his stomach, and the soup really is delicious, seeming to burn a warm trail from his tongue down to his gut. "This is wonderful. _Danke_ , Justice. _Danke_ , Mr. Terran."

" _Kochirakoso arigato gozaimasu_. Or, to be a bit more appropriate to what you said, gern geschehen." Clay grins before taking a bite of pizza. "And just Clay will be fine. Mind if I call you Klavier?"

"No. I think, once you have vomited up blood on the back seat of someone's car, they should really be allowed to call you whatever they wish." Klavier swallows another spoonful of soup. "I will pay to have the upholstery cleaned."

"Then I'd say we're even." Clay's hand claps him gently on the left shoulder. "So, what're we going to do for the rest of the evening? Since it seems like shots and beer pong are right out of the question for the near future."

The look that Apollo sends Clay makes it clear that these are not their usual Saturday evening activities, anyway.

"I know." Clay sits up a bit straighter. "We can have a bad movie night! It's been a long time since we had one of those, Apollo."

"Clay, you might want to think a little bit about the implication that we do a bad movie night here." Apollo's head tilts just slightly toward Klavier.

"I'm not saying he has bad taste in movies—though some of those collections you have include some really weird old sci-fi, and I have no idea what constitutes a good silent movie, so I can't really say if yours are bad or not." Clay finally pauses to draw in a breath. "I'm sure Klavier has or can rapidly acquire a streaming service, and there's always just turning on the sci-fi channel and seeing what atrocity they green-lit for a quick buck this week."

Apollo sighs, giving Klavier a sympathetic look. "I'll warn you now that if we watch anything even vaguely space-related, Clay will nit-pick it to within an inch of its life by the end of the first half hour."

Clay spread his hands. "And yet Star Trek is still my favorite television show. What can I say? I love the drama and the pretty views in sci-fi, but working in the field makes it a bit difficult to ignore all the liberties they take."

Klavier nods. "Rather like a doctor trying to watch a medical drama, I would guess."

"Exactly!" Clay jumps to his feet, setting his pizza on its expensive plate on the couch in his place. "Now, sit tight and let me go see what you've got in that monstrous collection of yours."

"There is a good possibility that you will find things I do not even know are there, so have fun." Klavier calls the words to Clay's retreating back.

Apollo hastily takes another bite before setting his plate down, too. "I'll be back in a minute. I want to help with the movie selection."

Klavier stays where he is, slowly ladling the soup to his mouth spoonful by spoonful, a smile staying on his face without any effort.

XXX

Klavier doesn't manage to stay awake for any of the movies, catching only scattered bits and pieces of beginnings, middles, and ends. He doesn't know if it's the medications that he's on—seven little bottles of pills are lined up neatly on the end table beside the couch, and Apollo double-checks every hour or so that he has taken the appropriate ones, it seems—or simply his body finally giving in to exhaustion and overwork.

He expects to have nightmares, as he always does. He expects to have to explain to Apollo and Clay that he is fine, despite screaming and flailing his way into consciousness.

He dozes peacefully during the movies, though, his head falling first to rest on Apollo, then on Clay, then on Apollo again. He always straightens as soon as he wakes, not wanting either man to think he is trying to take advantage of the situation; he is pleased and surprised that neither man seems to care much, that they touch his shoulders and his knees and just make their presence known in ways that somehow seem to drive the darkest thoughts and nightmares away.

He isn't sure when they go to bed. He had been prepared to offer them the guest bedroom, but sometime between a spaceship arriving at a suspiciously mauve version of Mars and what is probably a different show with a giant silver humanoid alien doing wrestling moves, two air mattresses appear in the middle of his living room.

He doesn't sleep deeply. He continues to wake every hour or so, and he thinks he catches most of a very strange werewolf movie though not in chronological order, as the DVD player has been set to repeat it until told otherwise.

But he does sleep, without dreams of death and betrayal, and for that, too, he owes Apollo Justice and Clay Terran a debt he will never be able to repay.

XXX

Apollo jumps to his feet as Phoenix Wright steps into the Agency, crossing his arms in front of his chest and glaring at his boss.

Phoenix isn't in his suit. He's in jeans and his sweatshirt and his hat that sometimes hides a spy camera, and the smile on his face holds just a hint of bitterness as he looks at Apollo. "You rang for me?"

"I know what you did." Apollo's left hand grabs a fistful of fabric where it sits against his right side. "And I want to know why."

"You're going to have to be a little more specific than that." Phoenix holds two fingers a quarter inch apart. "What am I being interrogated about, and why?"

Reaching into his vest pocket, Apollo pulls out the creased note that Klavier gave him this morning and unfolds it. "This. This was from you. So were all the text messages he got."

Phoenix studies the note, expression not changing. "Ah. And I suppose you have proof?"

"I do, actually." Apollo points to a faint line just visible about three-quarters of the way across the page, running vertically. "The printer's being doing this for the last two days, since one of Trucy's magic flowers got stuck in it."

The smile on Phoenix's face becomes a bit more genuine. "And the text messages?"

"Let's just say that you're not the only one who knows detectives and has connections on the police force." Apollo smiles, certain of his triumph.

"Well." Phoenix walks past Apollo, settling the note on his desk, smile fading away. "I guess I wasn't as careful as I thought."

"Mr. Wright..." Apollo hesitates, turning to face Phoenix's back. He's been debating what he's going to say all morning, since he called and asked Phoenix to meet him at the office. What do you really say to someone who just used a very complicated and round-about way to possibly save someone's life? A way that involved using police GPS information from Apollo and Klavier's cell phones? "Why?"

Phoenix looks back at him, and one of his less bitter smiles flashes across his face. "Because someone needed to get through to him."

"Uh huh." Apollo frowns. "And the fans recognizing him at the amusement park?"

Phoenix shrugs. "Lucky happenstance."

" _Lucky?!_ " The word fills the office, a mixture of fury and fear as Apollo remembers how Klavier collapsed as though he were a puppet with his strings cut.

Wincing, Phoenix rubs at his right ear, the one that was closer to Apollo. "Lucky because it meant I didn't have to orchestrate something to get him to damn well talk to you."

"But you did have something planned." Closing his eyes, Apollo counts to five before he allows any more words to escape. He's been dealing with Phoenix Wright for eighteen months. He should be used to things like this now. "I would like to know if two things occurred to you. One, did you think that maybe you could just ask me to go check on Klavier because you were concerned about him?"

"I did. Tried it twice before. More than that, if each instance of an agent talking to him counts as an attempt. He wouldn't talk to Edgeworth and he wouldn't talk to Ema, even when they were trying to be friendly with him." Phoenix's shoulders rise and fall in a small shrug, his fingers toying with the edge of a picture frame that holds an image of Apollo, Athena, and Trucy taken after one of Trucy's shows. "Edgeworth... well, after doing some digging, I decided Klavier had to be pushed to a place where he didn't have much choice other than to reach out to someone."

"He was about a degree shy of seizing from hyperthermia, severely dehydrated, and a few hours away from having a completely perforating ulcer." The litany of problems rolls off Apollo's tongue easily, having been heard far too many times yesterday as the doctor tried to convince Klavier that he didn't want to go home. If Apollo never has to spend hours in the hospital fighting for his right to remain by a friend's side again, he will be very, very grateful.

"Yeah, I know. Just like I know he checked himself out of the hospital against medical advice and went home with two friends. Not that any of that was my fault—I am not responsible for people getting Helicobacter pylori infections, and I am not to blame if someone's going to ignore that they're sick until it's that bad." Phoenix turns back to Apollo, his hands once more sliding into the pockets of his sweatshirt. "I assume the two friends were you and Clay?"

"Yeah." Apollo mutters out the affirmation, eyes sliding away from Phoenix. It may not have been the smartest thing he ever did, but Klavier's doctor had said they were only going to be monitoring him, and Klavier had looked so hopeful and sad at the same time, somehow, as he asked Apollo if he would drive him home...

"Detective Gumshoe picked up Klavier's bike, by the way. So you can tell him it'll be waiting for him at the police precinct and he doesn't have to worry about it."

"Oh. That was nice of him." Apollo blinks. He'd completely forgotten about Klavier's motorcycle, though in his defense he did have other things preoccupying him.

"So that's the answer to your first question." Phoenix raises one eyebrow, the faintly bitter smile back on his mouth again. "What's your second?"

Drawing a deep breath, Apollo makes sure he's meeting Phoenix's eyes evenly before he continues. "Have _you_ thought about talking to him, instead of going through these ridiculous roundabout schemes?"

"Ah." Phoenix runs a hand across his forehead, and this time he drops his eyes away from Apollo's. "It has been recommended to me. Given that it's what happened between us that set this whole mess in motion—"

"Do you hate him?"

Phoenix jerks back as though the question were a blow, and then the bitter smile is back on his face. "You don't usually go through efforts like this for someone you hate, now do you?"

"That's not really an answer, is it?" Apollo watches Phoenix, his right hand toying above and below his bracelet. Phoenix hasn't lied to him, not yet, but this is the type of verbal gymnastics that can indicate he's trying very hard to find a way to phrase things that isn't a lie. "Do you hate him?"

Phoenix draws a breath and lets it out in a long, slow sigh. "No. No, I don't."

No tightening of his bracelet, and Apollo watches pleased surprise blossom on Phoenix's face. "You did, though. That's part of why you didn't want to talk to him."

"He... was a reminder of a rather unpleasant time in my life. Which wasn't his fault, not really, but..." Phoenix's mouth twists, as though too many emotions are vying to show themselves, and he covers it with a hand a moment later. His eyes close, and he backs up until his left hip and right hand are resting against his desk.

Oh, hell. Apollo is really not up to helping _Phoenix Wright_ through a breakdown, not after—

"I'm fine." Phoenix lowers the hand that had been in front of his mouth, taking a deep breath, then another. He smiles, and there is no bitterness at all in the expression, though there is exhaustion. "It's hard still, sometimes, thinking about what happened. Not that I didn't still end up doing some good, but... between what he did and how much he looks like Kristoph, yes, there was a part of me that hated him."

"He's nothing like Kristoph."

"I know that." Phoenix's voice is surprisingly gentle as he crosses his arms in front of his chest. "I've known that for a long time, ever since you won your first case against him. He's a good man, heart and soul. The things he shares with Kristoph are the good things in Kristoph—his looks, his drive, his intelligence, his determination. Not his selfishness, his classism, his perfectionism. We're really going to have to work on that one... perfectionism has probably ruined more intelligent, driven people in the legal system than even greed."

"If you know that he's a good guy..." Apollo studies his boss, arms crossed tight across his chest. He supposes he can understand how Phoenix could know, intellectually, that Klavier isn't Kristoph, that Klavier didn't mean him any personal ill will, and still hate him because of all that happened. What's he supposed to _do_ about it, then? What's _Phoenix_ supposed to do about it? (What's _Klavier_ going to do, if the person he most wants absolution from simply can't give it?)

"I thought I'd probably hate him, at least a little bit, until the day that I died." Phoenix's gaze moves to the ceiling, his tone becoming more pensive. "But he is a good man, a good prosecutor and a good man, and we need as many of those as we can get. Edgeworth didn't want him to quit. I didn't want him to quit. Or... worse than quit."

"Yeah." Apollo's not sure if it's quite being suicidal, but Klavier certainly seems to have eroded away most of his self-preservation desire. _Perhaps things would be easier if I were dead._ A shiver snakes its way up and down Apollo's spine, and he hopes that it was largely fever talking, that the man who laughed with him and Clay last night doesn't really want to die. (It frightens him, that he can't tell how badly Klavier is hurting until he's _physically incapable_ of hiding it, and he doubts he will sleep well tonight, wondering if perhaps perhaps perhaps Klavier has...)

"Seems I'm a lot less of a sadist than I gave myself credit for, though." Phoenix's gaze lowers slowly, until he is staring at Apollo with an intensity that Apollo has rarely seen from him. "Reading through his Facebook, talking to friends and acquaintances of his... the more I watched his life falling apart, the less I could hate him, the more I wanted to fix it. And unless I'm mistaken, I wasn't lying when I said that I don't hate him anymore."

Apollo rubs at his bracelet. "That was one hundred percent the truth, Mr. Wright. Which means, maybe, for both of your sakes, you should talk with him.

Phoenix nods, expression pensive and considering. "You think it would be good for him?"

"Yes." Apollo nods. "I think it would be good for _both_ of you."

"Well." A pause, a beat during which Phoenix's smile flickers between his slightly bitter one and his brighter, more hopeful one. "I guess I'll be paying Klavier Gavin a visit, then."

Apollo can feel his whole body relax as a sigh slips out. "Thank you, Mr. Wright."

Waving a hand, Phoenix picks up the note from his desk and shoves it in his pocket. "Don't thank me yet. It still might not turn out the way you're hoping. Go enjoy the rest of your weekend."

"Right." Apollo heads for the door, trying to decide if he's upset at all about how the weekend has gone. He probably should be, but he had fun last night with Clay and Klavier, and he's actually really glad that he could be there for Klavier. He pauses with his hand on the door, frowning as he runs through Phoenix Wright's plan again. "Hey, Mr. Wright? If you knew how..." (He can't find a word that he can say without feeling awful, refuses to label Klavier _broken-damaged-fucked up_.) "...if you knew Klavier needed help, shouldn't you have sent Athena? She is, you know, actually a psychologist."

"But she's a stranger to him. He already knows and respects you." Phoenix waves a hand, a sly fox-grin sliding into place. "Besides, I already had Athena taking care of Trucy for the weekend."

No tightening of his bracelet, and Apollo studies his boss for a second before sighing and slipping out the door.

He'll just trust that, even though both reasons are clearly true, the first took precedence.

XXX

"Hey, Maya, just one quick question."

"Anytime, Nick."

"There's a message here on a Gavinners fan board, and the user name looks suspiciously like one of yours."

"Now, Nick, why would I be posting on a fan board for a band? You know I'm all about the super-heroes."

"Uh huh. So it's just coincidence...?"

"I didn't say that."

"This is the last time I talk to you about secret plans, Maya."

"Oh, come on, Nick. You could at least say thank you. Everything worked out all right, yeah?"

"Somehow, but you're two hours away, and it kind of took control away from me."

"Mia says you're welcome, and she's glad you're not in jail."

"Mia...?"

"How else do you think I could tell what was happening three hours away? I'm a spirit medium, not a seer."

"Right. Of course. And... thanks. To both of you."

"No problem. Does this mean... things are okay now?"

"Well, I'm still not a lawyer, but I finally chose my date to retake the bar. And I think... I think, finally, things are starting to look up for all of us."

XXX

" _Guten morgen_ , Herr Katze."

" _Guten morgen_ , Prosecutor Gavin." Edgeworth's voice is crisp even over the phone. Granted, Klavier has a very nice cell phone, but he's still fairly certain it's at least partly because of the way Edgeworth speaks.

"I know that I promised I would be in your office saying good morning today..." Klavier slips back into English, because this is something formal, something he has not had to do before. "But I am afraid I will not be able to make it in. I am under medical orders to stay home for at least the next forty-eight hours."

Silence, and Klavier paces the confines of his living room, one end to the other, his free hand shoved as far down as it will go in the pocket of his pants. He is wearing his usual black pants and black shirt, has halfway dressed for work, and there is a part of him that desperately wants to be _at_ work, to be proving himself useful.

Except he knows that he would be equally miserable at work, would be trying desperately to force his mind to make decisions that he is simply not capable of handling right now, and he knows it is better to call in and wait until he can handle work.

(He would probably still not have done this, except Apollo Justice threatened to call Miles Edgeworth himself and tell him Klavier can't come in, and that is an embarrassment that Klavier does not want to have to handle.)

"Take whatever time you need, Klavier." There is a cautious, hesitant note to Edgeworth's voice, something Klavier hasn't heard often before. Sliding into German, Edgeworth's tone falls to a softer, lower register. "Is there anything I can do to help you? Anything that you need?"

His first instinct is to say no, to say that he is fine, to push away this man who should hate him. Drawing a deep breath, Klavier releases it slowly, and really _thinks_ about the words. Thinks about the man who is saying them—a man who has been used himself, many times, by people he trusted. And instead he answers honestly, though the words seem to stick in his throat as he also slides into German. "I don't know. I should be physically ready for work by Wednesday, and I intend to return as soon as able. If I... think of anything you can do to help, I will tell you."

"Thank you." There is honest relief echoing in Edgeworth's voice as he continues, this time back in English. "Here, let me give you my cell phone number. If you need me, call me. Any time."

Klavier dutifully copies down the number. "I will do so. And I'm sorry for causing trouble."

"You didn't ask to be hospitalized, Gavin. Just get better and get back in here. I hate losing any source of intelligent conversation."

"Yes, sir."

Klavier is smiling as he hangs up the phone, though it quickly shifts to a contemplative frown. He didn't say anything about what is wrong with him, and he didn't mention the hospital at all, so how does Edgeworth know...?

A knock sounds on his door, and Klavier turns to look at it in disbelief. His nearest neighbor is a half mile away. His drive has a locked gate, and the key is sitting on his keyring on the table by the couch. It's eight o'clock on a Monday morning. There should not be anyone knocking on his door.

The knock sounds again, and Klavier moves to open the door.

He's barely cracked it open when a small blue-and-black hurricane barges through, grabbing him in a tight embrace that makes his stomach twinge again. "Klavier! Polly said you were really sick, that you should maybe still be in the hospital but didn't want to be and were home alone, and there's all sorts of rumors going around on-line about you, and I was really _worried_."

Trucy Wright stares up at him with eyes that hold a mixture of fury and tears.

Patting the girl on the head, Klavier smiles. "I was quite sick, but Herr Justice should have told you that I'm feeling much better now. I am even following doctor's orders and resting for the day."

Trucy's eyes narrow, and she studies him suspiciously. "You don't look like you're resting. You look like you're getting ready for work."

"I am not. I do not have my jacket, my belt, my boots, my chains. I must wear something even for being around the house, ja? I imagine you would be more put out if I were not wearing clothes, Fraulein."

Trucy's face flushes in the faintest hint of a blush, though the suspicion doesn't fade away entirely. "Maybe. But I'm not sure I trust you. I think you're like Polly and Daddy and Uncle Edgeworth. That's why I made Daddy drive me over here, and he's going to watch and make sure you stay resting on the couch while I go make you breakfast. Now, which way's the kitchen?"

Klavier points the way, lips twitching in a bemused smile. "You've no need to cook for me, though. Especially since there is rather a long list of things I am not allowed to eat until after my check-up tomorrow shows that I am healing as they wish."

"I know." Trucy spins around so that she is facing him while walking backwards, practically skipping towards the kitchen. "Polly gave me a copy of it. So shut and rest, Gavin, or I'll tell Apollo that you were naughty."

"He is not my mother, Trucy. He is just a friend..." But Trucy is already out of earshot, and Klavier turns to the other person currently standing on his doorstep.

"Hi." Phoenix Wright is wearing a hoodie and jeans that have seen better days. He has a beanie pulled down to hide his hair and his eyebrows—a look Klavier suspects he first adopted when trying to hide from reporters, one that has become his default over the last few years.

Your fault, a voice whispers in his head, and he takes a step back, not meeting Phoenix's eyes. "Come in, please."

Phoenix does, closing the door behind him, the latch making a soft snick sound as it slides into place.

Leaving Klavier trapped in his house with Phoenix Wright, and Klavier turns away, forces himself to take slow, even breaths.

"Your gate's all right, by the way. Ema drove us, and when we saw the locked gate I was going to call you, but Trucy's good with locks and Ema asked her to show her how to go about picking it and before I knew it we had broken in." Phoenix shrugs, as though this is the type of thing that happens to him all the time. "It seemed to lock just fine behind us."

"That... is good." Klavier isn't sure quite how he's supposed to respond to a bald admission of them breaking onto his property. Not that he is upset about Trucy being here...

"There's a couple things I think we need to clear up between you and me, Prosecutor Gavin."

Klavier jumps, taken by surprise at how quiet and intense Phoenix's voice can be. Turning so that he's facing Phoenix, he inclines his head, indicating that Phoenix should continue.

"First..." Phoenix's brows draw together in a harsh frown, and his voice drops to a low snarl. "Were you hitting on my daughter a minute ago?"

"What? No!" Klavier shakes his head, running over his conversation with Trucy and wincing as he picks up where Phoenix drew the implication from. "I was not, Herr Wright. Trucy is wonderful, and I enjoy facing off against her and Herr Justice in court, and she is, I think, becoming quite a dear friend, but I was not hitting on her."

"Good." Phoenix smiles, all hint of anger draining away as though it were never there. "I'm glad it's just your usual flirtations. It means I don't have to kill you, and we can move on to the other issue."

Klavier nods, bracing himself. This has been a long time coming, after all. Let Phoenix Wright tell him that he doesn't want Trucy associating with him. That he never wants to have to see or hear from Klavier again. That Klavier is a failure and—

"I don't hate you, Klavier. And neither do any of my friends."

They weren't the words he was expecting, and Klavier blinks before raising his gaze to meet Phoenix's hesitantly. "You... don't?"

"I don't. I... thought I did, for a while." Phoenix's head bows, and his lips twitch in the bitter parody of a smile. "I couldn't see you, couldn't think of you without thinking of that trial, and everything that came after. I thought you were blind and arrogant and egotistical and vain and self-righteous."

Klavier flinches back with each descriptor, though he doesn't look away. He will never look away from the truth again, not if he can help it.

"But I was wrong." The bitterness fades from his smile, and Phoenix Wright looks down at Klavier with something that looks frighteningly like approval. "It wasn't self-righteousness; it was just plain _righteousness_. You thought you were stopping a criminal from corrupting the justice system. You didn't see that you were being played. You were young and you trusted people who seemed trustworthy. You do have a bit of arrogance and an ego, but it goes with your job. You have to, in order to have a hope and prayer of trying to do something as nebulous and difficult as _deliver justice_."

"I..." Klavier shakes his head, taking a step back, his breathing fast and shallow. Not now. He cannot afford to have a panic attack now, not in front of this man. "I do not deliver justice. I helped to _break_ the justice system, Phoenix Wright. I am responsible for this Dark Age of the Law, as much as my brother is, as much as Prosecutor Blackquill is."

"No, Klavier, you're not. You're a victim of it, just like Miles was a victim of Von Karma and Gant. I never hated him, not even when he..." Phoenix looks away, then looks back, and his smile is sad and honest. "I can't hate you or blame you, and I don't want you to use me as an excuse to blame yourself. I love people who have made worse mistakes than you ever did. People who couldn't even see that they were standing on the line between right and wrong, they'd become so blind to it. You never lost track of that line, Klavier. Even your brother and your friend knew that the most they could hope for from you was that you turn a blind eye, not that you'd help them."

"I..." He has to be able to say more than that. He has to present a reasoned argument, a proper objection, but he can't seem to make his tongue work. "I didn't look into it. I knew something was off, and I didn't look into it, didn't ask why Kristoph was still associating with you when he thought you were such scum, didn't look out for Trucy, being adopted by a man I revealed to be a criminal, didn't do _so much_ —"

"It's _not your job_." Phoenix's hand has closed tight around Klavier's right wrist, his fingers like burning brands. "I know how easy it is to think that. I thought it about you for a while. But what a prosecutor does is take all the facts they have, make their theory, and _defend that theory_. It's _my_ job, the _defense's_ job, to find the holes in your theory, to find the evidence you missed, to present alternatives. And if I didn't do it well enough for you to believe me, that's _my_ failing. Because asking you to both believe enough to fight and doubt without any evidence... that's asking you to tear yourself apart. To drive yourself crazy. Which is both unfair and counter-productive to actually having a functioning legal system."

"I should have been able to see—"

"You would have, if I was able to give you the evidence you needed. You've proven that over and over again, when you've faced off against Apollo." Phoenix's fingers slowly release their hold on Klavier's wrist, rise to push stray loose strands of blond hair away from Klavier's eyes. "If the defense presents enough evidence to show that your theory is wrong, you will change your theory. Not quickly, because you've based your theory on the most reasonable alternative given the preponderance of evidence, but you'll ignore a confession, turn on one of your closest friends, and help put your brother on death row if you think it's what's right."

Daryan.

 _Kristoph._

Klavier swallows, gazing at Phoenix Wright, at the branch of peace that is holding out, and knows that he can't leave even this secret between them. Not if he really wants absolution. Not if they're going to both be completely truthful with each other. "I don't want him to die. Kristoph. Either of them, really, but especially Kristoph. They _deserve_ to, it's the justice I have delivered to so many other people without blinking, but I don't want them to die."

Tears burn at his eyes, and he closes them, drawing deep breaths, hand moving to press against his stomach where pain is burning again.

Phoenix's hand covers his, and Phoenix speaks in that same low, intense voice that Klavier hasn't heard before. "There was a woman I loved, when I was younger. She was a serial killer, though I didn't know it at the time. She tried to frame me for one of her murders. It was pretty obvious to everyone, but I still ate a tiny glass bottle she had used to store poison to try to protect her. She was willing to see me hang, or at the very least get life in prison, and I still loved her enough to literally eat glass for her."

The warmth of Phoenix's fingers disappears, and when Klavier opens his eyes the older man is standing a respectable distance away, both hands in his pockets.

Phoenix's shoulder rise in a small shrug. "Love isn't reasonable. Maybe that's why people frequently aren't, either. Your sorrow over their deaths doesn't make you any more complicit in their crimes."

"No. I suppose it doesn't." Klavier forces his hand back to his side, away from his stomach. "As your failure to find evidence proving your innocence does not make you guilty. It is most hard to prove a negative, after all, especially when those in positions of power are manipulating things."

"Yeah? Maybe." Another shrug, and Phoenix's smile is no longer sad or bitter at all as he studies Klavier. "But, anyway... I don't hate you. And I don't want to see you hurting. And neither do a whole lot of other people who care about you."

"That... means a great deal to me. Your... forgiveness." Klavier studies the man across from him, trying to think of what else he can say, what else there is to say. Eventually he settles on the simple and appropriate. " _Danke_ , Herr Wright."

" _Nichts zu danken_ , Klavier Gavin." Phoenix pronounes each syllable of his name, given and family, with calm precision. "Though, if you really want to thank me, call Prosceutor Edgeworth later. Ask him for some names of people you can go talk to. People who can help you with... all of this."

He had a hard enough time calling in sick to work today, though he could theoretically still be sitting in a hospital bed if he didn't hate hospitals so much. On the other hand... "I will think about it, Herr Wright. Would you like to come in and sit? Or would you prefer to go see how Trucy is doing?"

"I'll take a seat, if you don't mind. Trucy's about as talented in the kitchen as I am. Maybe a little more so. She's only set it on fire once." Phoenix picks his way between the air mattresses, still lying on the floor where Apollo and Clay left them, and throws himself into a deep armchair.

Klavier hesitates, glancing down the hall toward the kitchen.

Trucy appears in the hallway, a tray balanced carefully in one hand, her other raised in a scolding gesture. "Klavier, I told you to sit and rest. Daddy, why aren't you making him _rest_?"

Phoenix raises his hands in a gesture for surrender. "I can't make anyone do something they don't want to do, Trucy. You know that."

"Oh, so I really _wanted_ to eat all those vegetables for the last six years?" Trucy glares at her father.

Klavier takes the opportunity to settle himself back on the couch. He does feel better when he's sitting down, if he's honest, and having a drink to take his latest round of pills with will be helpful.

"There." Trucy very carefully settles the tray on his lap, patting his head while she does as though he were a pet who is behaving appropriately. "Was that so hard? Now, where's the remote for the DVD player? Apollo says you've got some wonderful awful movies here."

Klavier points to the remote, not certain if his taste in movies is being insulted or not.

Not really caring, either, as he begins ladling soup into his mouth one small spoonful at a time again.

He's glad to have company for the day, and even if he knows that everything is still not all right—even if his eyes still want to both gravitate toward and skitter away from Phoenix Wright—he thinks that, for the first time in a long time, the future looks just a little bit brighter.


	5. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"Prosecutor Gavin."

Klavier turns to face the unexpected voice, smiling to see Apollo Justice, Clay Terran, and Trucy Wright standing in a tight knot at the edge of the rope that separates the gallery crowd from the lawyers, prosecutors, and defendants prior to the trial.

Apollo grins at him. "Go for the throat, Gavin."

Klavier can't help but return his smile. "Herr Forehead, I fear that you have suffered some kind of head injury and are rooting for the wrong side."

"No." Trucy rolls her eyes, practically bouncing in place, her hands tight aroud the red rope. "We're rooting for the side we think is _right_."

"Also the side that has better hair."

Apollo elbows Clay roughly in the side.

"Hey, he does!" Clay takes a half-step back, pressing up against others in the crowd. " _I'm_ not part of the justice system. I'm allowed to be shallow about my side if I want to."

"Well, hopefully you will find that I have both better hair and the evidence on my side." Klavier strokes a hand along his braid, trying not to look like he is preening.

It has not been an easy three months, for him or, he suspects, for those who have been supporting him. Not that you could tell it from the way that Trucy and Apollo and Clay act, from the way Edgeworth and Ema treat him.

They _trust_ him.

It had been a slow realization, one that took almost a month of work with one of the therapists that Edgeworth recommended he look into. They trust him to tell them what he is capable of, to do what he says he can do, and he must return that trust with honesty.

Which is why he has not stood in court for almost two months.

Two months during which he slowly put the pieces of his life back together. Two months of trying different tactics and medications to make sure he can sleep at night. Two months where he found if he doesn't force himself to try to write music or practice, if he just acts when the urge takes him, he is able to do it. Not as easily as he did before music became so tangled up in betrayal and pain, but since when did dark themes keep music from being good?

Not that they are _all_ dark themes.

"We'll be rooting for you, Klavier." Trucy reaches across the barrier, and Klavier steps closer, takes her hand and presses a chaste kiss to the back of it.

"I am honored to have you in my corner, Fraulein."

"I think we should go out to celebrate tonight." Apollo is still smiling, his hands now clasped on the red dividing line. "Win or lose or draw, it's good to see you back in court, and it's definitely worth a bit of celebrating."

Clay elbows Apollo this time. "Especially if it's on Prosecutor Gavin's tab, eh?"

Holding out his hand, Klavier smiles his easy, winning grin. "A handshake to seal the deal, then?"

"Sure. Though I don't mean you need to pay, I can cover it, we're—"

Klavier takes Apollo's hand firmly, pulls it to his lips, and kisses it just as he had Trucy's. "That is payment enough for anything the two of you could eat. Mr. Terran will have to either pay for himself or give me his hand."

One of the bailiffs clear her throat behind him, clearly asking him to move along, and Klavier leaves a laughing Clay and Trucy with a stammering, red-faced Apollo as he heads for his place in court.

It will not be quite as much fun as facing off against Apollo Justice, but he is actually looking forward to this trial, and that, in itself, is enough reason to smile and celebrate.


End file.
